


Smoke and Mirrors

by flyingisland



Series: Aomori Adventures [1]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 106,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo finds himself, through a series of confusing and dizzying events, working alongside none other than Orihara Izaya: feared informant and constant, unrelenting thorn in his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missions & Disasters

 

It’s a nice day today.

Maybe a little chilly, he muses, but it’s the first warm day of Spring. A light breeze works its way through the hair and clothing of every passerby, rustling the leaves of potted plants in open windows and flapping signs against the doors of all of the little shops lining the street. The sun is bright in the big, blue canvas of the sky. The air is so fresh and clear that Shizuo swears he can smell Simon preparing a fresh batch of sushi all the way on the other side of the district.

Tom-san has been inside of their building for nearly half an hour now, he muses, cigarette loose between his lips as he fiddles with his lighter. The boss had called him back early in the workday for “very urgent business”. They had a lot of clients to get to, but Tom-san had sighed, sparing all of the city’s biggest losers for a little bit longer.

Shizuo had opted to stay outside, since the boss made it pretty clear that he only wanted to see Tom-san, and it was so beautiful out that sitting in the stuffy waiting room seemed like a waste.

He draws out a long breath, flipping through his phone. Celty has texted him something about cooking. He hasn’t cooked in months, and nothing more than ramen noodles, so he wonders how desperate she is for this information if she’s coming to him.

_‘How much sugar goes in a sheet of cookies?’_

_‘Depends on how sweet you want them to be.’_

He guesses that would be right. Celty doesn’t have a tongue though, so he can imagine the entire bag dumped inside of her mixing bowl already. He sends another text.

_‘Please try to look it up online. Shinra can die from a sugar overdose for all I care, but don’t make me responsible.’_

The door behind him clicks open and Tom-san appears, a strange look on his face. His lips are a tight line, eyes a little darker than Shizuo thinks they usually might be—he isn’t sure, but there’s something really off about him, something that makes his stomach knot.

“Uh, Shizuo,” Tom-san sort of laughs, sort of coughs, clearly anxious, “The boss says… Uh, he needs to speak with you. Please… be careful.”

Which clearly translates to _“Don’t hurt him”_ , which translates further to _“He’s going to say something to you that will ruin this beautiful day.”_

He doesn’t reply, but puts out his cigarette and slips it into its envelope. Stuffing his hands into snug pockets, he shrugs, already a little pissed just from the thought of it, and pushes past Tom-san into the building. It’s his turn to climb the stairs and wander through the waiting room into the office. Even the secretary looks like she’s afraid he’ll hurl her computer out the window or break a trash can over his knee. It’s annoying, and she makes a tiny, terrified noise as his shoulders twitch.

“G-go right inside, Heiwajima-san,” she nearly cries.

This is ridiculous.

Is he getting fired? It’s a long time coming, so everyone needs to calm down. He’s only beat up one boss out of the many jobs he’s went through. The ratio is honestly working in their favor.

He nudges the door open, and the boss looks like he’s recovering from a heart attack, only to straighten up just a little too quickly, sweat beading his brow as he spots the blond.

“Heiwajima-san,” he starts, and Shizuo is already sick of hearing his own name, “I have a proposition for you, but if it doesn’t interest you, uh—we were thinking of asking Vorona. B-but, as it is, Tanaka-san and I discussed it, and we honestly believe—uh—you might actually cause less damage. That is… You won’t kill anyone.”

He cocks his head to the side. This makes no sense at all.

“I’m not being fired?”

The boss laughs at that, calming down just a little.

“No, of course not! Tanaka-san is very pleased with your work.”

They stare for a moment in silence after that. He still hasn’t gotten to the point, and Shizuo hates it when people fuck around without ever explaining what they mean. It’s even worse because they have so much work to do. He wonders if they’ll decide to fire him after all if he breaks his dry spell and beats up another boss.

“Oh, uh, well… You see. There’s a very interesting job that we’ve had fall into our laps. It’s not our usual sort of work, but it’s still technically collections,” He starts again, leaning back in his chair and motioning for Shizuo to sit as well. He refuses for the time being. He thinks if he touches that smooth, glossy wood, he might be tempted to throw it.

“You see, Heiwajima-san, a colleague of mine in Aomori is having loads of trouble collecting on a loan from a very troublesome customer. He’s asked graciously for my help with this, as we’ve achieved quite a high percentage of successful transactions since, well, you started working for us. It’s an extremely large amount of money, you see, and he’s offered give us a certain percentage, of which I am offering you, if you decide to take the job, five percent.”

That doesn’t sound like a lot to him, to be honest, and the boss must have sensed that, because he grabs a pen and paper then, scribbling something down and sliding it across the surface of the desk.

He takes a few steps forward, slowly, reaching out and grasping the paper. The boss looks at him in anticipation.

_¥ 1,000,000_

He stares at it longer than he probably should.

“That’s a lot of money,” he says finally, and the boss seems to sigh in relief.

“Of course,” he replies hurriedly, as though trying to stay in Shizuo’s good graces as long as he can, “Your travel expenses, lodging, and food will be paid for by my colleague. He’s planned for your stay to last about a month, three weeks to be exact, but he has kindly offered to pay for any longer it might take if the job isn’t finished before then. As I said, it’s been a very difficult task, but with your success rate, Tanaka-san and I feel that you’re perfect.”

He’s silent then, not really sure what to say. It sounds fine, but just fine. The idea of traveling across the country just to collect some money seems like a lot of useless legwork, but ¥ 1,000,000 is also nothing to laugh at.

“Is Tom-san also getting that much?” he asks, which he realizes is rude, but only too late.

“Oh,” the boss says after a moment, “Tanaka-san isn’t going. You see… This job requires a certain level of discrepancy. If we send too many men, well, we begin to look suspicious.”

His heart drops momentarily at that. A month without working with Tom-san sounds exhausting. How can they expect for him not to kill someone for a month without Tom-san around? And why a month? Why doesn’t the boss’s colleague just go to the loser’s house and punch him?

Shizuo has so many questions that it’s dizzying. He rests his weight against the chair, feeling a little lightheaded as he takes in everything he’s hearing. The boss seems worried as he watches him, but it doesn’t stop him from going on.

“Heiwajima-san,” he says, so, so nervous, “This will not be a normal job. It won’t be easy for you, but I promise it will be worth it. My colleague, Koizumi-san, is requesting that you infiltrate this man’s organization and find a way to bypass his bodyguards in order to actually—“

He chokes a little. He seems like he’s hemorrhaging, he’s so freaked.

“Are you asking me to be a secret agent?”

Shizuo sits, finally, fingers crinkling the paper that he still can’t stop looking at in his hands. The boss nods, lost for words.

“We’ve discussed this, and Koizumi-san and I have organized for you to work for a company that is scheduled to cater one of his client’s charity events. If you play your cards right, this should allow you to find time alone with him, and you’ll threaten him until he pays up.”

It sounds complicated. Shizuo can’t do the math in his head, but the money must really be worth it for them to resort to this sort of insanely intricate work.

“Koizumi-san has hired a partner for you to work with as well. This partner will monitor the client’s schedule, behavior, his bodyguards, and his security while the two of you and the catering company prepare for the big event. He’s pulled some strings with another company, so this partner should be as well-suited for the job as you. So please try to get along with them.”

Shizuo eyes him warily as he ends his speech. He thinks about Tom-san waiting outside, leans back so far in the chair that the front legs come off of the floor. His eyes wander to the ceiling as he rolls the paper between his fingers.

How long has it been since he’s taken a vacation?

“So what do you say?” The boss questions eventually, “If you need some time to decide, we have until the end of the week to give him an answer—“

“I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The office is very stuffy with so many men sitting inside. Shiki-san looks like he feels this too, but Izaya reasons that he must find himself in so many situations like this so very often, so maybe, if it bothers him, he should consider getting a bigger office.

He’s such an interesting human. Such a bad person, by the standards of normal humans, but so calm and collected, and so accommodating the majority of the time—when he isn’t breaking men’s ankles and presumably chopping the heads off of horses and crafting cement shoes.

“Don’t look so excited, Orihara,” Shiki spits. He’s in a foul mood, “This is a serious meeting.”

But if it were so serious, Izaya thinks, maybe the man should have showed up himself instead of sending a messenger.

He’s a big guy, ugly, with scars that speak of so many stories and Izaya wishes he could have read them all. The guy has rocky eyes, jet black, and a sharp, tight jaw. He’s dressed up in probably his nicest clothes, but he still jitters and shakes in a room full of thugs. He’s some sort of bill-collector, like Shizu-chan, but he actually looks the part. Shizu-chan is more of an idol playing a bad-boy in a chick flick. Or maybe the handsome psychopath in a teen horror.

“You have to understand,” the man says slowly, voice a low rumble. Izaya can feel it rattling in his bones, “Koizumi-san is only requesting the assistance of his old friend because he is completely desperate. He understands how busy you are, Shiki-san.”

 _‘An old friend of Shiki’s’_ , Izaya thinks, _‘Another scummy human.’_

Shiki simply nods. His men look tired and bored. They’d already been talking for a few hours when Shiki called Izaya, and it had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to arrive. He still isn’t entirely sure what’s needed of him, since no one has directed more than a sentence toward him in the fifteen minutes he’s been here, but from what he’s overheard, he understands that there’s a lot of money on the table and this Koizumi-san needs help getting it.

“Orihara here would surely be happy to help you,” Shiki says, making Izaya wonder when he became his keeper, “Although, I must warn you, his biggest weakness is how single-minded he can be. He’s a rampant dog if you let him out of the muzzle for too long.”

Izaya gives him an indignant look because he’s wrong. Shizu-chan is a single-minded person. He, on the other hand, is perfectly capable of getting work done without becoming too distracted.

“You see,” Shiki continues, “He has this habit of ruining people’s lives. Three weeks is a long time for him to suffer through allowing others to live peacefully. I hope the catering company is prepared to replace their entire staff after Orihara convinces each of them to dunk their heads in the fryers.”

Well, if Izaya wasn’t offended before, he definitely is now. Shiki has no faith in him. Fryers? Really? How lame.

The bulky bill collector doesn’t seem to be amused by this at all, only fixes Izaya with a steely glare. He takes a large bundle of papers from his bag and sets it on the table between them.

“This is everything you need to know.”

Izaya isn’t even quite sure what’s going on, but he can spot what appears to be a plane ticket poking through the edge of the pile, and the sight of it makes his chest ache. Leaving Tokyo won’t be fun, but Shiki doesn’t look as though he’s in the mood to argue. It’s not really fair though, he muses. He doesn’t even work for Shiki. They can’t just expect him to drop everything because some bigshot lost a bunch of money.

Shiki gives him a look as though to say, _‘Yes we can. Don’t say a single word or you’ll wake up tomorrow missing a few fingers.’_

So he shrugs, drawing out a long sigh and stretching his tired limbs.

“Ah, well, I guess I haven’t been on vacation in a while.”

 

* * *

 

 

The airport is too busy. It’s early in the morning, the sun hasn’t even begun to peek over the horizon, but the building is already alive with businessmen and tired families, all rushing through, hysteric with stress, winding around Shizuo as though he isn’t even here.

He was expecting to have an escort to Aomori, but no one is here. The folder of information is tucked securely under his arm, ticket in hand, as he looks for his flight on the board. He’s never flown first-class in his life, but Tom-san says it’s nice.

 _“For someone like you, who never treats himself, it might feel like a vacation.”_ He’d joked, and Shizuo sure hopes so. This job has the potential to be a complete disaster. Vorona was the only one with the common sense to look doubtful when they’d told her.

 _“Why do you not just kill him?”_ She’d said, and Tom-san seemed to think that was a great reason why Shizuo was their first choice.

He wanders across the room toward a row of seats, noting the flight number listed above. This is his flight, he discovers, and seats himself in the waiting area as a busty flight attendant eyes him like she’s never seen a man before. She looks a little hungry, he notes. She must be ready for breakfast.

It’s going to be lonely for a while, if this partner of his isn’t a friendly guy. If he’s too friendly, it might be bad for his health, because while Shizuo promised Tom-san that he would try to take deep breaths and meditate every morning, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep his promise if this guy decides to get a little too personal.

He hates people who ask too many questions.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s late afternoon when Izaya finds himself stepping up to the waiting area of his flight. Shiki told him that his partner will meet him at their hotel, and that they’ll be sharing a suite, but there’s no information on the guy. Koizumi must know something about him, must understand the way he can’t keep his fingers off of other people’s playthings, because while he’s been itching to have a go at this masterful spy who has been hired to do the heavy lifting, Koizumi is holding him just high enough that he’s out of reach.

Oh well, they’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other soon enough.

The client, as they’ve been calling their target, is a man named Fukayama Hiroto, thirty-four years old. He borrowed money from Koizumi’s company many months ago to fund some sort of business endeavor and was extremely successful. However, when time came to pay up, Fukayama became greedy with power. Why pay someone such a large amount of money when you can pay someone else a lot less to protect you from them?

Well, because you’ll have to meet someone like Orihara Izaya.

He thinks about this person who is destined to be his partner. Will he be intimidating but cowardly, like the man who visited them? Or will he be a handsome James Bond type, who will somehow sleep his way to victory?

The doors open for his flight, and he shuffles with the crowd, suddenly very excited.

 

* * *

 

 

First class is nice.

Shizuo didn’t even know that they put beds on planes, but apparently they do. He drank milk, he watched the morning news, he enjoyed the good life for nearly two hours before it ended, but as the boss said, his chauffer is to pick him up at the airport, drive him to his five-star hotel, and the first day, he will be allowed to enjoy the city before work begins.

 _“The catering company doesn’t know that you’re working for us,”_ Tom-san had explained, as they’d finally gotten to start their work, _“You’re going to be doing a lot of heavy-lifting—no dealing with customers and very little interaction with coworkers.”_

That sounded heavenly. He wondered what kind of strings they pulled to get him such a nice fake job.

_“Your partner, however, is supposed to be a master of manipulation. They’ll be booking events, answering phones, and running errands for the business owner. If you want to switch them, I’m sure they’d let you.”_

Tom-san had laughed then, patting him on the back. Shizuo wondered idly how it would feel to be good at talking to other people.

He finds his bag easily. Celty gave him a cute little tag when she'd heard the news. She was so excited for him that he felt bad when he acted like he didn’t want to go. Maybe she thought some decoration for his luggage would make him a little more enthusiastic. Instead, he just feels guilty.

The tag is light blue with little purple flowers. It’s cute like something a teenage girl would like, but it works. He recognizes it easily, even though a few people eye him strangely when he makes a grab for it.

He walks through the gates and finds a short, chubby man standing a ways away, holding up a sign with his name scrawled neatly across it. He looks friendly enough, if not a little tired, maybe a little uncomfortable.

_“The man who picks you up will be your assistant. He’ll drive you around, he’ll find you the best ice cream in the city at 3AM, and he’ll be the one you talk to if you have any problems or questions.”_

The man smiles widely at him when he approaches, lowering the sign as he takes a deep bow.

“Heiwajima-san,” He greets, balding head shiny under the fluorescent lights, “It’s an honor to meet you. I hope your flight went okay.”

Shizuo returns the bow, suddenly feeling skittish. No one has ever shown him so much respect unprovoked.

“Oh,” the man says suddenly, rising from his bow, “You can call me Ota.”

They leave soon after for the hotel. Shizuo is momentarily taken aback by the car they’re driving—a sleek, black sports car—but he figures he needs to get over it soon enough. A wealthy man like Koizumi-san is going to flex his muscles as much as he can, he figures, in hopes that Shizuo and his partner will return to their respective companies with many stories, inciting jealousy in the hearts of his rivals.

“You’ve been briefed on the job, I presume,” says Ota, and Shizuo nods.

This man reminds him of a father-type already. It’s not hard to imagine him posing for cheesy Christmas pictures with a couple of young children and a wife with obvious smile lines. He probably works so hard to save up for his children’s futures. He probably loves his family more than anything.

That’s the only way he can imagine that a man with such an honest face would allow himself to get mixed up with monsters and soulless business men.

“I’ve been told that you have a sweet tooth.”

His curiosity is suddenly piqued, although he feels a little embarrassed that that’s the thing his company chose to inform Koizumi-san’s company of. He can’t even imagine the humiliating profile they’d submitted about him.

_‘Heiwajima Shizuo, 24, has the appetite of a child.’_

“Well,” Ota continues, seemingly not put off at all by his silence “I took the liberty of stocking your room with some ice cream and candy. There are also several flavors of milk, and I set out some restaurant pamphlets in case you were interest in going out to eat tonight. Your partner won’t arrive until late.”

He isn’t sure how to reply, so he chooses to say nothing. He’s definitely not used to being treated like this by such a fatherly person.

His own father, well, he was more of the silent, disapproving type. He can’t even imagine him saying something like _“I bought you sweets because I know you like them”_. That’s more like Kasuka, he muses, and comparing this man to his brother gives him a strange feeling.

Loneliness, maybe. Homesickness, already.

The hotel is a lot bigger than he was expecting. The people inside are dressed so nicely that Shizuo feels cheap in his uniform. The ceiling is high and he tilts his head back to see it. Chrystal chandeliers sparkle overhead. Each of their footsteps echo against the glossy floor. He wonders how many times his apartment could fit just in this lobby. Seemingly miles away, the counter sits, long and shiny, dark wood contrasting the pristine whiteness of the rest of the room. He wonders if the workers ever get a headache here.

He wonders if people think he’s Ota’s assistant, instead of the other way around.

“We’ve come to understand that you have a bit of a reputation in Tokyo,” Ota says after fetching their keys from the desk, “I hate to ask this of you, but Koizumi-san hopes that you won’t be recognized by anyone, and that you’ll keep a relatively low profile while staying here.”

They step into an elevator that Shizuo decides is bigger than his bathroom.

“That being said, we’ve taken the liberty of picking out new street clothes for you. If nothing suits your tastes, please let me know. Our stylist will pick another wardrobe for you immediately.”

He hasn’t bought new clothes in years, he realizes, face suddenly warm. This feels like some sort of bizarre dream. What’s he gotten himself into?

He watches as each number lights up on the wall as they move up noiselessly. It’s so different from the creaky horror at work. He wonders how successful Koizumi-san is if he can afford this sort of treat for just a random guy helping him get some money back. He wonders if Ota-san gets perks like this too.

“You look familiar, by the way,” Ota-san blurts, “I think—uh, well. Never mind.”

Shizuo gives him a look, shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot as the elevator reaches the 8th floor and the bellhop lets them off.

Minutes later, the situation is completely forgotten as Shizuo stumbles around, baffled, in the suite.

True to the theme, the room is sparkling white. The walls are a strange, white stone, the floors slick and shiny white, the table and chairs, the furniture all slightly different hues of white.

The main room of the suite, which he’s told by Ota-san that he will share with his partner, is a living room sort of area. There’s a window to his left that seems to take up half of the wall, heavy white curtains opened slightly to reveal a gigantic balcony overlooking the city. There’s a glass-top coffee table between two long, fluffy couches and a television mounted on the wall some ways away. There’s also a shelf with a radio, a computer desk with a closed laptop and a telephone, a mini-fridge that is so large that he’s not even sure if it counts as mini anymore, and a small kitchen area.

Across the room, there are two doors. Ota tells him that the room on the right is his.

“It’s bigger than the other one,” He whispers slyly.

Shizuo blushes as he makes his way in to check it out. It doesn’t surprise him how huge it is, but there’s a strange, stirring feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looks around.

All of the clothes in the closet are as soft as his uniforms were when Kasuka first dropped them off. There’s a smaller mini-fridge by the bed, which is extremely fluffy-looking and might just fit ten people if they put their minds to it.

There’s a plush rug over the floor, a window blocked out with another heavy curtain, and a wide mirror that seems to make him look a little thinner than he actually is. There’s a TV mounted on the wall in here too, far bigger than any TV he’s ever seen.

He wonders why someone would even need a TV so big. Do all rich people have bad eyes?

“You should try on your new clothes,” Ota-san says from behind him, “Just to make sure they fit.”

He thinks there might be something in his eyes. They’re suddenly very itchy.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a man holding up a sign that reads “Orihara Izaya” and people keep turning their heads to stare at him, as though double checking the spelling of such a strange name. Surely they think he’s crazy. He looks like he might just put in his two weeks at the end of this, and Izaya wonders how many assistants this company is willing to give him.

‘What a mistake, assigning a human to cater to my needs.’

“Orihara Izaya,” The man bows, “Please call me Yuuki.”

Izaya decides not to bow, but nods just a little. He hands his bag over to the man, already pretty used to this whole shtick, but ready to see what Koizumi has to offer.

They board their car and drive to the hotel. It’s impressive, and he tells Yuuki this. He doesn’t use an honorific, and he can tell this pisses the older man off.

He’s maybe forty, maybe younger by a year or two, tall, lean, dark hair, dark eyes. He’s very plain looking, from his hairstyle to his skin, from his clothing to his shoes. He reminds Izaya of a salary man, and he wonders how such a straight-shooter found himself tiptoeing between bill collection and money laundering schemes with the yakuza.

“Your partner has already arrived,” Yuuki says slowly, as though swallowing his frustration, “From what his assistant has told me, he should be soaking in the Jacuzzi when you arrive.”

 _‘How tacky,’_ Izaya thinks, _‘what kind of amateur is so impressed with a Jacuzzi that they need to soak in it on the first night?’_

 

* * *

 

 

Shizuo thinks that maybe he’s actually died and gone to heaven.

He’s eating ice cream in a Jacuzzi. There’s a silk robe and a fluffy towel draped over a chair nearby, slippers (so soft that it feels like walking on clouds) tucked underneath. He’s pulled the curtains of the window back, far too high up for anyone to spot him. He can see the sparkling lights of the city blinking on one by one as the sun sets. It’s a strange feeling, watching everything but remaining unseen.

It makes him think of this partner of his. A master manipulator, a people person. He wonders if that man feels this way all the time.

He can hear some commotion through the bathroom door. He’d asked Ota-san to relax while he took a bath and the older man’s face had softened at the words, coughing to mask a soft chuckle.

_“My coworker,” He explained after Shizuo’s brow had twitched in annoyance, “He harassed me when I chose to be your assistant over your partner’s. He said I was stupid for choosing the dangerous one.”_

_His chest hurt a little, but he ignored it. He wondered how much Ota-san knew about him._

_“But, you see, he’s having a terrible time right now with the other guy, and you’re admittedly the kindest man I’ve ever been an assistant to.”_

It sounds like an argument and suddenly, there’s a terrible smell seeping in from under the door. He can’t really put his finger on why, but it definitely stinks, and he can feel anger bubbling in his chest as Ota’s voice cries out, muffled through the wall, and another voice seems to laugh.

Suddenly, right outside of the door, he hears it,

“If this partner of mine is so unprofessional and childish that he would waste time taking a bubble bath instead of greeting his colleague, then he deserves to be taken out of the bath like an unprofessional child.”

The handle jiggles and the door is pushed open.

“Hello, little child,” a familiar, blood-boiling voice sings, “Mama-chan has come to take you out of bath time now!”

 

* * *

 

 

Izaya admittedly is not an easy guy to surprise.

He was considered a bit of a legend in high school for his stoic expression upon first discovering Shizu-chan’s monstrous strength. He didn’t shake or stutter when the yakuza offered him work for the very first time. He fought off the Saika monster like a champ, accepted Simon’s violent outburst in stride.

But at this moment, Izaya is forced to admit, yes, he is shocked.

So shocked that his body refuses to even move.

His throat feels very tight, hand gripping the doorknob so firmly that his knuckles are white.

Shizu-chan is so tacky, eating ice cream in a Jacuzzi like someone who has never stayed in a fancy hotel before. But he probably hasn’t, Izaya realizes. Most nice hotels don’t allow guests to bring pets.

But that shouldn’t be what he’s thinking about, even though it’s honestly the only thing he can bring himself to actually think about.

But how did this happen? How did Koizumi, in all of this alleged infinite wisdom of his, not do the research to discover, duh, that Shizu-chan is a monster and has been after Izaya’s head for almost a decade? How did no one let it slip? Did Shiki know? Did Shizu-chan’s boring boss know?

Is Koizumi trying to get him killed?

“Shizu-chan,” he finally finds his voice, thankfully smooth and confident and not shaken with nerves as he’s found himself suddenly feeling, “No dogs allowed.”

Okay, scratch that. That was total and absolute shit. That was such a complete disgrace to introductory insults that he wouldn’t be surprised if one of their butlers decided to put him out of his misery for even letting out such a shitty remark.

But it seems to work, because the bowl of ice cream is shattered on the marble floor, melted cream splattering against those cute little night clothes that Shizuo’s assistant has so kindly set out for him. Shizuo is out of the tub in a flash as well, naked and wet, and Izaya works hard to keep his eyes where they need to be.

He’s not sure why he’s working so hard at that, actually.

Never mind that though, because Shizu-chan is coming toward him. The butlers are freaking out. The fat balding one is calling out, “Heiwajima-san! Heiwajima-san!” as if that will help anything at all.

Izaya takes a step back, finally, almost tripping over the threshold between bathroom and living room as he waves his hands in front of him.

“Oh Shizu-chan, don’t end your bath time just because of little old me!”

And Shizuo steps in the doorway, takes one look at the short, fat, panicky butler, and slams the door shut.

There’s silence then, for a long moment. Izaya is staring at the door as though a bomb has went off in the middle of the room. Izaya’s butler—Yuuki—says something along the lines of ‘Good job, Ota-san.’, and the fat one just sits there, dumbstruck.

“Koizumi-san didn’t tell us that the both of you knew each other. That could have been a lot more dangerous, right?”

Izaya nods, letting out a small _‘mhhm’_.

“Shizu-chan usually breaks something big, like ripping the sink out of the wall or taking out the toilet. Then he uses it to break everything else.”

There’s no noise at all on the other side of the door. No talking, no moving around. It’s as though Shizu-chan has disappeared.

Izaya steps forward, ear against the wood. He listens, but there’s nothing.

He begins to feel braver, so he turns the knob as gently as he can, pulling the door open one more time. Peering through the crack, he can see Shizu-chan’s back, clad in only an ice-cream stained silk robe. He’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He’s taking measured breaths, Izaya can tell. His hands rest on his knees, fingers turned in the stereotypical way that humans do when meditating.

“Out.” He says simply, low voice echoing against the walls of the bathroom.

And Izaya slams the door as quickly as he’s ever done anything in his life.

There’s too much riding on this job to let Shizu-chan ruin it on the first night.

 

* * *

 

 

Ota-san knocks on the door after maybe half an hour has passed. Shizuo’s hair is sticky against his face, his entire body itching as the soap settles on his skin. His nerves are shot, and the effort it takes to calm himself is so exhausting that he feels he might just fall asleep on the floor.

He might anyway, he muses, if the flea is still hanging around outside of the door. If he sees that stupid bastard’s face, he won’t be able to control himself, he’ll just snap.

“Heiwajima-san,” Ota-san calls out feebly. He seems scared (and Shizuo notes, shamefully, that he should be), “Are you okay, sir?”

He shrugs. His jaw is so tight that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk.

“Orihara-san has retired to his room. I’ve volunteered to spend the night in the common area just in case he tries to bother you, so please rinse off and come to bed. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“This isn’t… It won’t work,” Shizuo grits out, his hands shaking against his knees, “We’ll kill each other. I need to go home.”

Ota-san is quiet for a moment, but soon, Shizuo is flinching as he feels a hand against his shoulder. It’s been so long since he’s been touched gently by someone, and without warning, it’s hard for him to resist spinning around and pushing the man away.

“Please reconsider,” Ota-san says quietly, “Koizumi-san is depending on you, and if you let him down, I’m afraid he might blacklist your company.”

 _‘Of course,’_ Shizuo thinks, _‘there’s a catch.’_

Because nothing is ever easy, especially when Izaya has anything to do with it.

It takes a long time, but eventually Ota-san convinces him to stand and ushers him into the shower. He fetches a new robe, towel, and pair of slippers, he leads him into his room, tucks him into bed, pours him a glass of milk and turns on the TV.

Shizuo is numb through most of this, until the station changes to some trashy celebrity gossip show and the familiar hooded eyes of Kasuka stare back at him through the screen. He’s embarrassed to hear the gross things they have to say about him, but Ota-san gasps when he looks to the TV.

“That’s it,” he cheers, and Shizuo looks to him, confused, “My daughter loves him. She has a poster of him in her bedroom. Do you realize how much you two look alike? I feel like I’ve met you every time I’ve woken my kids up for school.”

He’s too exhausted to feel annoyed that someone is talking to him about Kasuka, and he’s not sure if he would even if he were completely awake.

“You’re sharp,” He mumbles, setting his empty glass on the night stand, eyes heavy, “that’s my brother.”

And if Ota-san says anything else, he doesn’t hear it. Kasuka’s gaze puts him right to sleep, satiates his homesickness enough that he can allow himself to rest, and the bed is so soft that he feels like he’s floating.

 

* * *

 

 

Izaya isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel, but sleeping with just a wall between Shizu-chan and himself, it causes vibrations to run over the surface of his skin.

He’s been so busy with work lately that he’s found little to no time to harass the brute.

It’s been almost six months since they’ve seen each other, now that he thinks about it.

And of course Shizu-chan looks the same, but maybe a little more naked than he remembers. He stops for a moment to contemplate why his mind keeps wandering back to that.

Regardless, this is troublesome. He sends Shiki a quick text to explain the situation. Maybe he can pull some strings and send an assassin their way.

_‘My partner is Shizu-chan. Were you aware of this?’_

Shiki probably won’t reply until the morning. His work gets the busiest at night.

Until then, Izaya is left with his thoughts, which unfortunately, continue to lead him back to how slick Shizu-chan’s body looked when he climbed out of the Jacuzzi.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning creeps in slowly, light seeping through a tiny crack between the curtains, and the sound of birds cooing outside of his window is what eventually wakes him. It’s so peaceful, lying in a super comfortable bed, staring up at the ornate designs on the ceiling, listening to the sounds of nature, the city too far below for him to hear.

He realizes that the world’s most disgusting parasite is sleeping only a room away, but there’s a hollow ache in his chest at the thought of it, and nothing else. He just keeps imagining Tom-san clapping him on the back, cheering him on. He tells himself how bad it would be to let everyone down.

He still thinks it won’t work, he thinks Izaya will ruin everything somehow, but he’ll do his best.

There’s a knock on the door, and a moment later, Ota-san pokes his head in.

“Good morning, Heiwajima-san! I hope you slept well.”

He realizes suddenly, guilt-ridden, that Ota-san wasn’t able to wake up his kids for school because of him and the flea.

“I’m sorry,” he says meekly, not looking at the other man, “your family must have missed you last night.”

Ota-san seems shocked, but he recovers quickly enough, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“My ex-wife has the kids this week, actually, so the two of you kept me away from an empty apartment.”

Well, there’s an illusion shattered, but Shizuo feels proud of himself for guessing right about the kids. And he’s sure the ex at least has smile lines.

“Why don’t you get up and get ready?” Ota-san suggests, wiping what appears to be a spot of dust from the doorframe, “Koizumi has allotted you only a few hours for breakfast before you’re supposed to begin work.”

He wonders why he was given a free day to settle in and Izaya was not. He thinks maybe it was a precaution, because Izaya is dangerous in different way, and accommodating the little nuisance won’t do anything to stop him from fucking things up.

At least with himself, he muses, it’s possible to interact without getting hurt.

(Maybe it’s not easy, but Tom-san and Celty have managed just fine.)

He gets out of bed slowly, already missing the comfort of the mattress. Ota-san bows and steps out of the room. Shizuo is left to stare into his closet at more clothes than he’s owned in his life, wondering if they fool-proofed the wardrobe so he couldn’t mess it up.

_‘If there’s even one piece of clothing in here that’s ugly or unfashionable, I’m sure I’ll choose it.’_

In the end, he picks something simple: a gray t-shirt with a neckline that’s a little too low for his tastes, a navy blue sweater-type… thing, and a pair of dark pants. There are so many pairs of shoes in the bottom of his closet, he notices just now, that he almost just sits on the floor and gives up, but he thinks of Tom-san and Vorona, and he knows he needs to persevere, if only for them.

He picks a regular-looking pair of tennis shoes, a pair of silk boxers, and socks that are impossibly soft. It’s been so long since he’s worn casual shoes that he wonders if he’ll even be able to walk normally.

Carrying the clothes with him, he makes his way toward the bathroom. Ota-san is nowhere to be found, and neither is Izaya, which he thanks whichever God might be smiling at him for. The louse’s scent is faded as well, as though he’s been gone for quite a long time. A stray feeling of anxiety shivers through his chest. Even when Izaya isn’t around, if there’s even a hint of him, it can’t be a good thing.

He pushes that thought aside, setting his clothes on the bathroom counter and undressing. The shower is warm instantly, the perfect temperature, and it’s such an odd change of pace from the icy spitting of the shower at home.

His bath last night was not really a bath. His hair feels sticky still and his face is oily from not being washed. He also needs to brush his teeth, so to kill time, he digs a toothbrush out of the cabinet and squeezes on some toothpaste, brushing as he steps under the water and lets it relax him.

It takes him only a few minutes, then he’s drying himself off, setting the toothbrush back in the cabinet, and trying to get his hair to situate. Sometimes he finds himself wishing that he had straight, silky hair like Kasuka’s and not such a curly mess, as though he doesn’t have enough to feel insecure about as it is.

He thinks maybe people would take him more seriously though, if he looked more like everyone else. He’s the only person he knows with such fluffy hair.

The clothes fit him perfectly, and he wonders how they got his measurements. His company definitely doesn’t have them. 

He’s not used to wearing such a low-cut shirt, and the air against his collarbone feels foreign. At least the pants aren’t too low, but they cling to his backside in a way that makes his face hot without even looking at his reflection in the mirror. He thinks maybe trendy clothing is for narcissists. He can’t imagine ever feeling the need to showcase his body in such a way if he had a choice.

Finally, he’s confident enough to leave the bathroom, and Ota-san is waiting for him when he steps into the living room.

“Looking sharp, Heiwajima-san,” he greets, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a place for breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuki seems a little frustrated, but it’s not like Izaya can worry about every human at once.

They’re sitting at a window-side table, Izaya gazing out at all of the people passing by. He’s talking to Yuuki about their job, about how interesting of an opportunity it is to be asked to extort some random bad guy, and before he knows it, he finds himself rambling on about Shizu-chan.

“He’s truly a monster! He can barely contain his anger even if his entire body is convulsing at the effort. Didn’t you see him last night? Standing there, about to rip the door off of the hinges even though he was so naked and wet—“

And he shuts himself up instantly.

_‘Why am I still talking about this?’_

Yuuki seems to notice too, as the sudden silence snaps him out of his trance. He raises a brow at the informant, but otherwise stays quiet.

“—anyway, what I meant by that is that Shizu-chan has no awareness of his actions when he becomes angry. I can’t believe your boss would allow such an obvious risk to work on such a high profile job. Really, if Shizu-chan thinks he can just rage around the suite in his birthday suit, I definitely won’t be able to concentrate!”

And Yuuki’s perplexed look only deepens, head cocked to the side as Izaya sits in mortified silence.

Breakfast passes slowly afterward, Yuuki sipping coffee peacefully as Izaya tries to pretend that the humans outside are more interesting than any of them appear to be.

 

* * *

 

 

Ota-san brings them to a quaint little diner a few blocks from the hotel. He must have done a lot of research on Shizuo to know the kind of places he likes, and the idea of it makes him feel a little uncomfortable. It reminds him of a story Kasuka told him earlier in the year, about a fan who made his favorite cake for him and begged him to take it outside of his hotel. Not only was it bizarre that she knew his favorite kind of cake when he didn’t remember ever saying it, but the press didn’t even know where his hotel was located.

Shizuo thinks maybe this feeling is similar to that.

The waitress is very sweet. He forgets at first that the people in this city don’t know about him, his bad reputation, and he’s taken aback when she doesn’t stutter while taking his order at all.

Ota-san’s phone beeps, and he apologizes while he checks it. It reminds Shizuo that his cellphone is at the hotel, probably in his uniform pants. The other man laughs, typing something quickly before setting his phone to the side.

“Heiwajima-san, I’m sorry if this is too forward, but what exactly is your relationship with Orihara-san?”

Shizuo can feel his skin crawl at the mention of the smelly bastard’s name. He scrunches his nose, brow furrowed, probably glowering at the table in a similar way that a child does at the vegetables their parents made them eat.

“I want to kill him,” he says simply, and Ota-san seems confused by this.

Their food arrives, and he doesn’t want to talk about Izaya at all anyway, so he’s thankful. The less the louse comes up, the lower his blood pressure will be, and the less likely he is to throw a table through the window or flip a few chairs.

“Yuuki-san says that he’s saying strange things, that’s all,” Ota-san draws out after Shizuo has gotten down a few forkfuls of his breakfast, “he seems really… enamored.”

He earns himself a glare, so hot that he scoots back a little in his chair, sputtering as he realizes that yes, Shizuo is not above throwing him too.

“If that piece of shit is saying anything gross, it’s because he’s trying to mess with you. Don’t believe a single word that comes out of his mouth.”

Ota-san apologizes and they eat quietly. The waitress refills their drinks often and people walk right by their table as though there isn’t a monster sitting right there who needs to be avoided. Maybe this is the vacation he’s needed, he thinks, just to experience life like a normal person, to blend into the background.

“Koizumi-san will be expecting you in about an hour,” Ota-san tells him after some time has passed, “Once we finish our meal, we can head over. It will take us awhile. Your cover job will start later this afternoon. We’ve selected it specifically based off of your strengths and weaknesses, so please do your best. Even if it isn’t a real job, it would be inconvenient if you were to get fired.”

He nods, setting his fork down on his plate and taking a drink. A new job sounds interesting, if he’s completely honest with himself. He has a lot of experience at beginning new work. He’s good at starting over, then starting over again and again and again.

He thinks, if there’s anything he’s good at, it has to be first days at temporary jobs.

 

* * *

 

 

When they finally arrive at Koizumi’s building, Izaya is so buried in his own thoughts that he follows silently behind Yuuki without making a single derogatory comment.

His mask is in place at least, he muses, as he smiles childishly at the security guards, but his mind is so stormy that he can barely force himself to walk straight. He almost trips on his way into the elevator, and Yuuki sends him a distasteful glare.

He almost doesn’t even notice as Shizu-chan and his butler step in beside them, but when he does, well, he wishes he hadn’t.

Shizu-chan is dressed casually for the first time in years, and not just casually, but in clothes that fit him even more snugly than those gaudy bartender’s uniforms.

…And a cardigan? Since when does Shizu-chan know anything about clothes? Does he even actually know what a cardigan is?

The monster is shaking slightly, staring at the wall with such aggressive fervor that Izaya thinks he might burn a hole in it. Even making such a warped expression, Izaya thinks he looks handsome, and he tries to convince himself that it’s just an innocent observation, and tries even harder to block out the following naked rampage memories from the night before.

He’s doing a very impressive job of controlling his temper, Izaya notes, albeit not without a small feeling of bitterness. Who knew it was possible for him to behave like a human being? Has his boss back in Ikebukuro really succeeded in training him to heel?

When the elevator doors finally open, Shizu-chan is out in a flash. He’s heaving like he’s been holding his breath the entire way up, and Izaya realizes with distain that he probably has. His butler is patting him on the back gently, and Izaya scowls at the two of them.

Of course Shizu-chan would be making friends with the help. Of course Shizu-chan has no problem at all making friends with everyone somehow, even as a monster.

They sit at a wide, circular table surrounded by two circular couches. Shizu-chan sits on one side, and he decides to sit opposite, if only to give himself more room to dodge if the brute does decide to freak out after all. Yuuki sits next to him, and Shizu-chan’s butler sits next to the beast. Izaya thinks they’re just a little too comfortable with each other already.

He clicks his tongue.

“Don’t act like you’re pissed off about this,” Shizuo barks, hands fisted at his sides, “You’re the fucking insufferable one. Try feeling sorry for the rest of us who have to smell you!”

Izaya grins at him, wide and toothy like a child.

“Oh Shizu-chan, you’re so stupid, it’s funny. Don’t you understand? They picked me for this job because I’m the best. They picked you, well, because they know you won’t die. That’s it.”

The elevator doors open again just then, right as Shizu-chan opens his mouth to say something.

 _‘Stupid, probably,’_ Izaya thinks with a smirk.

The man who steps into the room then is very tall, with broad shoulders and a wide, square jaw. His skin is dark and leathery, his clothes pristine and very expensive looking. The smell of cologne follows him as he steps further into the room. Both of their butlers stand and bow, and Shizu-chan almost looks as though he will do the same, but the man—Koizumi—waves a hand and tells him to relax.

“Heiwajima-san, they warned me that you would be a handsome guy, but I wasn’t expecting a model! I can’t believe my secret agent will even look the part!”

Shizu-chan’s cheeks flush lightly, and Izaya takes a moment to drink in the sight. He’s only seen the beast blush a few times before, usually because he’s broken something important and he’s ashamed, but this pinkness is purer somehow. It’s becoming.

“And of course, Orihara-san,” Koizumi says, voice dropping an octave, “I’ve heard so much about you. I hope you’re as ruthless as they say.”

Izaya reassures him, yes, he is, absolutely. There’s no reason to play games with him when Shizu-chan is sitting so close by. The protozoan is so dull that he’d ruin everything anyway, calling out any bluff Izaya might have up his sleeve.

They talk for a long time after that. Koizumi explains the situation to them again, that they’ll be collecting information on Fukayama over the next few weeks before the party. The catering company will be visiting his estate frequently, and while Izaya will be on the visiting team, Shizu-chan is to stay back at work because he’s a monster who can’t control himself.

Or something like that.

They’ll take the bus to work as to not look too suspicious, and they’re not to behave as though they know each other.

Koizumi slides two envelopes across the table toward them. Inside, there are fake IDs.

His chosen name is Maki Hiroki. Pretty boring, he thinks, but he can live with it. Shizu-chan’s name appears to be Hayashi Yukio, which he thinks doesn’t suit the beast at all, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll never have to call him by it, but it’s funny watching the barbarian squint at the writing, undoubtedly struggling to memorize the name.

They’re given the address of their new job and two pairs of uniform shirts each.

“Tomoko’s is the name of the catering company. It’s run by Tachibana Tomoko. You can wear your own pants, but try to keep it casual. This company usually caters for schools and birthday parties, so if you show up looking too fancy, they’ll get suspicious. Fukayama has hired them to show how charitable he can be. He’ll be expecting all of the employees to seem overwhelmed by the idea of catering such a high-brow event, so being unprepared to a certain degree will be preferred.”

After more talking, the both of them are shoved into a taxi.

“We’re running behind,” Koizumi reasons, waving goodbye, “Don’t forget, you don’t know each other! The cab will drop you off a block away!”

They’re crammed a little too close. Izaya can smell the shampoo Shizu-chan used this morning. He’s sure the idiot is scrunching his nose again. He doesn’t even care to look. He just knows.

Shizu-chan steps out of the cab before it can even come to a complete stop. The driver makes a noise as though he’s concerned, but doesn’t push it much. Koizumi already paid him anyway.

He can see the title _Tomoko’s_ hanging from a sign on a quaint building just a little ways away, but as he turns to tell the idiot Shizu-chan, he realizes that he’s wandered off somewhere.

 _‘Not my problem,’_ he reassures himself, _‘as though I need a monster tailing me through this entire job.’_

Right as he’s about to head over, he spots the beast coming out from an alleyway behind him, already wearing his work shirt, the other folded neatly in his arms.

_‘Did he really just undress in public?’_

Granted, it was only a shirt, but… _How scandalous._

“Are you coming?” Shizuo spits, already passing him.

He shakes his head, collecting his thoughts, before rushing behind the blond. He’s definitely not changing so soon. He can find a bathroom inside for that, and anyway, what does Shizu-chan expect to do with his other shirt? They’ll know he changed outside somewhere if he wanders in carrying it.

What an idiot.

When they finally find themselves in front of the building, Shizu-chan hesitates. He reaches out to push open the door, then just… stops, fingers ghosting over the handle.

Izaya chances a look at his face, and what he finds is a massive concentration of nerves. Shizu-chan seems to be mentally coaching himself to go in, as though the door will lead to a math class or a beer drinking contest, and Izaya really can’t understand what’s stopping him.

“Shizu—“

“Shut up,” The monster growls, voice hoarse, jaw tight.

Then, he pushes open the door, but Izaya doesn’t miss the way his shoulders shake.

It’s small inside: polished hardwood floors, various advertisements hanging on the walls, a few mismatched chairs sitting in a corner by a shelf stocked with food magazines. A bell rings overhead as they step through, and there’s a curtain behind the oak desk across the room that shutters at the sound.

A woman rushes through within seconds. She’s fairly short, round face, with wavy, dark hair. She’s wearing a floral apron over curvy hips that reads across the chest ‘Tomoko’s’.

“Welcome,” she greets, but pauses to eye Shizu-chan for a moment, “You must be one of our new guys!”

He nods, then greets her bashfully.

“I am too, actually,” Izaya interjects, smiling as kindly as he can fake, “You wouldn’t happen to have a room where I could change?”

“Of course! Of course! Follow me!”

 

* * *

 

 

Shizuo is left alone in the room as the woman, who he assumes is Tachibana-san, leads Izaya through a door by the magazines and chairs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, nestling his other shirt under his arm. Something smells heavenly, but he’s still full from breakfast, so his stomach makes an uncomfortable little gurgle at the thought.

He almost turned back earlier. If the flea hadn’t been there, judging him, he might have. Even the thought of letting down Tom-san hadn’t stopped the anxiety from rushing through him like ice water, freezing his insides and rooting him to the spot. This whole trip has been one shock to his system after another, and while each thing individually is a nice change, something about being so far from his life in Ikebukuro is even more draining than being there.

He thinks maybe sometimes he takes comfort in his reputation. He doesn’t have to experience the horror of strangers when they witness his monstrous strength for the first time anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about letting anyone down.

Where he would have went, he has no idea, but his muscles had been screaming so loudly to run away and hide that it took everything he had not to listen.

“Sorry about that,” the woman calls over as she comes back into the room, “You can call me Tomoko.”

Shizuo bows low, shaking off the last of his nerves.

“Hayashi Yukio,” he says, thankful that he took to time to study the name on the ID Koizumi handed him earlier, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her face is red when he rises, but he knows better than to say anything about it. It’s been a long time since he’s met a woman who doesn’t recognize him, but he remembers when he was younger and girls would always give him strange looks like this. He wonders if they can sense how violent he is.

Sometimes he thinks women might have more senses than men.

“S-so you’re the guy we hired to be our muscle,” she jokes, albeit a little shaky starting out, “It’s a shame we have to hide you in the back room.”

He’s not really sure what she means by that, but she’s sure embarrassed when she seems to realize what she’s said.

“I’m sure you’ll do a great job! The hiring company said you were a hard worker and could lift more weight than all of the other applicants, which is important!”

He can hear Izaya coming out of the other room, so he decides not to reply at all, since the louse will begin sucking all of the air out of the room as soon as he can.

Tomoko-san greets Izaya as well, although she seems a little less embarrassed with him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the louse draws out in what is supposed to be a seductive voice, but it causes a vein in Shizuo’s forehead to bulge, “My name is Maki Hiroki, although… you may call me whatever you like.”

She laughs at that, and says that she knew he would be her customer service rep as soon as he walked in the door. She doesn’t say it’s a shame to have him out front, but Shizuo sure thinks it is. The less people the little disease is allowed to interact with, the more likely this city is to stay in one piece.

She brings Shizuo first into the back room. There are boxes everywhere as though a tornado has torn through just this room, throwing things in every direction. She asks him if he can organize everything.

“Each box is labeled, as are each of the shelves. If you could match them up, that would be a great help!”

He tells her he can manage while Izaya gives him a judging look.

 _‘Are you sure you can?’_ his look mocks, and it takes everything in him not to blow their cover already and snap the little fucker’s neck.

 

* * *

 

 

Tomoko bounces along to the next room and he’s surprised when they pass more employees, sitting at desks and typing away on computers. There are three of them, all women, and they flush darkly upon meeting him, acting like the girls he remembers manipulating all the way back in high school.

When he introduces himself, they swoon, and he knows already that this job will be entirely too easy.

“The girls handle our finances,” Tomoko explains, leading him to a larger desk in the corner, obviously placed there at the last moment, “I used to take the phone calls and make the schedules, but, you see, we’ve recently been booked by a very large, famous company, and the publicity has made things a little hectic around here. We used to do just fine with the four of us and the cooking staff, but now there is far too much to carry for us girls, and far too many phone calls to answer. We have so many orders that I’m really not sure if I’ll have time to sleep!”

Izaya laughs at that, like he’s supposed to, and notices idly that the girls are all watching him from around their desks.

“Of course, I understand,” he says, pretending to sober after her joke, “It must be getting very hard for you.”

It’s her turn to laugh, and she does it openly. It’s a little charming, how boisterous and honest she is already, with a total stranger that she found through a pretty sketchy employment agency, and he thinks she’ll be an interesting human to watch.

He wishes he didn’t need this job for cover, so maybe he could try double-booking her. Or maybe, turning each of the girls against each other.

“I’ve had to hire four new workers in the kitchen,” Tomoko replies, “Luckily, the agency says Hayashi-san will be more than capable of doing the heavy-lifting. He doesn’t look like it though, does he?”

Izaya says, no, no he doesn’t, and he thinks about the thin length of the monster’s body. Like the string of a violin, he is stretched long, with knobby knees and legs that go on for miles, a soft, flat stomach, jutting collar bone, the sharp curve of his hips—

He needs to get a handle on these disturbing thoughts.

Tomoko spends the rest of the day explaining to him what it is that he’ll be doing, from answering phones to scheduling events, talking to Fukayama about his upcoming banquet, verifying orders, and generally just playing secretary. She sits with him as a few phone calls come in and shows him the programs they use on the computer to log their orders. It’s terribly boring, but he listens to the way she talks and watches her movements.

While the other girls seem absolutely transfixed on him, Tomoko doesn’t seem attracted to him in the least. He doesn’t consider himself to be a conceited person, but in order to manipulate humans so easily, he needs to be aware of his strengths, and he knows he has a nice face.

He knows most women and some men swoon at the sight of him, and while she seemed to trip over herself around Shizu-chan, she has not afforded him the same treatment.

It’s a little unsettling, to be honest.

 

* * *

 

 

Shizuo is just setting the last box on the shelf when Tomoko-san calls to him.

“Hayashi-san—Oh my goodness, did you really get all of this done already?”

He’s a little embarrassed, so he shrugs. He wonders if he’ll lose this job simply because he’s getting things done too fast and there’s nothing left for him, but Tomoko-san seems overjoyed.

“This is amazing,” she coos, clapping her hands together, “It hasn’t been this clean in here since we opened.”

He tries not to look too disgusted by that, but everything is still in the package and none of it is food. To be completely honest, he’s not sure what most of the boxes are even holding. He peeked inside of one while trying to find where it went, but there were just a bunch of strange, plastic funnels inside, so he gave up even trying to figure it out.

Each box was labeled with a number that corresponded with the number on a shelf and nothing else. He thinks, secretly, that maybe the place wouldn’t be such a huge mess if she would just label her stuff like a normal person.

“Anyway,” Tomoko-san says, finally done ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’ about the room, “the office girls ordered takeout for lunch, so we wanted to see if you’d like to come in and eat! There’s plenty for everyone! I was going to say that you have lots of time to finish the room, so not to worry about taking a break, but, well, now I don’t have to.”

He agrees to come with her, but he’s a little nervous about the office girls, and even more nervous about whether or not Izaya will be waiting in there as well. He’s sure the louse probably convinced one of them to feed him anyway, since it’s been at least a few hours since breakfast and the headache is generally just the kind of person to try to manipulate people for no reason at all.

When they make their way into the office area, one of the girls is very excitedly telling a story. She’s waving her hands around and the other girls are laughing. It’s something about a nightclub and a guy who tried to talk to her, but… something. He isn’t quite following all of it over their laughter, and as soon as they spot him coming into the room, they’re all completely silent, faces stained red.

The one who was talking puts her arms down slowly. She’s cute, very thin, with her long hair pulled back in a braid. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, especially for being dressed so casually in the company t-shirt and denim jeans, but it’s not like Shizuo cares.

The other girls are also cute, he notes. One of them has shoulder-length curly hair, dyed red, and the other has very short, dark hair.

And in the corner, he notes, swallowing a scowl, sits the flea, picking through a to-go box filled with rice and vegetables, and smiling at him in the way that an old person would smile at a child.

He sends a deep glare the flea’s way, and it’s not missed by Tomoko-san, who seems a little worried about something.

“Hayashi-san, come, take a seat,” her voice shakes as she pulls him out a chair, stuffing a to-go box into his hands, “Maki-kun was just telling us about himself! Would you like to tell us about yourself?”

 _‘Not really,’_ he thinks, but he knows he can’t be like that. There’s nothing quite as suspicious as someone who refuses to talk about themselves.

“Uh, y-yeah, well, there’s not a lot to say. I live alone, I, uh, I have a little brother. That’s about it.”

Tomoko-san laughs at that, and he knows he sounds stupid, but without his massive strength, he realizes that he’s actually a pretty boring guy.

“What kind of food do you like?” the short haired one asks through a mouthful of takeout. The makeup-wearing one sends her a mortified look.

“Uh, I really like sweets,” he replies, digging around in his own food, “but this is fine too. Thank you.”

He’s not sure who paid, but they all seem extremely interested in what he has to say, so much so that no one even says ‘you’re welcome’.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. The curly-haired one makes a strangled noise.

His face gets a little hot at the question, and he’s almost too embarrassed to answer.

“No,” he says finally, “I haven’t for… awhile.”

Izaya chuckles from his spot across the room, and while everyone looks at him, Shizuo is the only one sending omens through his glare.

“A cute guy like you is single?” says the walking disease, “what’s wrong with you?”

Shizuo stuffs his mouth with rice in order to avoid answering, because he knows he’ll only end up destroying something.

Still, what a shitty thing to do, even for the louse.

‘He’s just trying to make me slip up,’ he thinks, ‘he wants me to mess this up even if that means his company loses too.’

“I’m Chiyo, by the way,” the short haired one interjects quickly, and for that thoughtful save, Shizuo decides that he likes her already, “the redhead is Bunko-chan.”

Bunko-chan waves meekly, cheeks still pink.

“And this,” Chiyo announces, flailing her hands in the direction of the third girl, the one who had been very excitedly telling that strange story earlier, “is Kyou-chan. She likes to tell stories, and she gets so into them that it’s hard not to love listening.”

Kyou-chan waves at him. While seeming slightly flustered by the introduction, she doesn’t argue. In all honestly, Shizuo is definitely not one to eavesdrop, but he’d found himself engrossed in her story when he’d come in. He wonders if she’ll get back into it again.

“Oh, uh, I’m Hayashi Yukio,” he greets, bowing his head, “Calling me anything is fine.”

He can feel Izaya eying him from across the room. The flea seems a little angry about something, but he’d be damned if he knew what about. Now that he thinks about it, the louse has been pretty pissy since they got here, as though this isn’t just the type of thing he would be doing at home.

“Yukio-kun,” Chiyo-san says after a few moments have passed, “Everyone seems to be wondering, but I’m taken, so I can ask: What exactly is your type?”

 

* * *

 

 

As the sun is setting behind the tops of buildings, the store closes. Shizuo is slightly sweaty by the time his shift ends, from cleaning out the storage room, to moving fryers, ovens, fridges (anything too heavy for normal people) out of the way and cleaning underneath, to changing light bulbs just a little too high up for anyone else to each.

He changes back into his other shirt, which feels rough against his sweaty skin. Izaya is changed by the time everyone gathers outside to lock the door and say their goodbyes.

Tomoko-san sends him home with a little cake with a strawberry on top, wrapped in saranwrap. Izaya seems perfectly rested upon leaving, surely because he just sat at a desk all day doing nothing. He’s humming a little tune as they walk toward the bus stop, and while Shizuo pretends not to notice for the first ten minutes, once they’re out of sight of Tomoko’s, he snaps.

“What the fuck is your problem, anyway?”

Izaya seems surprised, leaning against the sign that indicates that they have, in fact, found the bus stop.

“I was just humming, Shizu-chan,” he says slowly, “it’s not my fault that some people like to look on the bright side and not brood all the time—“

“I don’t mean that. You’ve been glaring at me the entire goddamn time we’ve been here. Usually you act like you can’t stay the hell away from wherever I am, like you’re just trying to piss me off, but now I haven’t seen your sorry ass for months, and when I’m forced to be around you, you act like you’re the one who can’t stand being around me.”

Izaya doesn’t talk for a moment or two, watching traffic go by, eyes fluttering from person to person who passes on the sidewalk.

“I didn’t realize you ever paid attention to my ass.”

Shizuo swings then, missing the louse’s head by mere centimeters and punching a fist-shaped dent in the pole of the sign.

He panics then, looking around quickly, and when it appears that no one is watching them, he hurriedly bends the sign back in a shape at least similar to how it was prior. It’s lumpy now, but at least it doesn’t look like it’s been punched.

Just maybe… hit by a bus.

“Why do you have to say shit like that,” he hisses, too afraid to attract attention to them by yelling, “I’m trying my damn hardest here not to snap your shitty louse neck, and you just keep pushing me! I don’t need the yakuza after me again, flea! Don’t make me strangle their informant to death!”

The bus pulls up right as Izaya starts to laugh at him, and he’s more thankful than he wishes he was. He still has so much growing to do, he muses, even though he’s fought hard to even be able to exist in the same space as Izaya without destroying anything.

They climb on, and thankfully, there aren’t a lot of people. He hopes Izaya remembers how to get back to the hotel, because he’s not sure if he does. They might be on this bus all night.

The louse begins to text the moment they sit down. His typing seems a little more aggressive than Shizuo has seen before, and he wonders what he’s talking about, and to who. He hopes he’s keeping his business out of Ikebukuro when Shizuo isn’t around to stop it.

There’s an old woman sitting across from them with a young girl. The little girl waves at him, and he smiles. She’s excited by that, and her grandma has to grab her arm to keep her from running over.

He thinks, maybe a long time ago, he was innocent like that too. He thinks, maybe during that time, the world wasn’t a cruel place, the city didn’t need protecting. He was just a child who loved the excitement of the planet moving around him, and the world loved him as a child experiencing the ever-changing sights and sounds.

The bus stops and Izaya stands then. No one gets off but the two of them, and he waves goodbye to the little girl as he leaves.

It’s a little chilly when they step out onto the sidewalk, the sky already dark and the streetlamps pouring light down over the two of them. The hotel is only a few buildings away, and Izaya begins walking over without saying a word, nose stuck in his phone.

His brows are knitted together, shoulders stiff. He’s scowling slightly, in the way he does when he forgets that anyone is looking.

Shizuo is almost uncomfortable about the realization that he knows the informant’s body language so well, but they’ve hated each other for almost a decade, so he thinks it’s more about survival than anything else, and this mood, brooding and touchy, is a dangerous one to find the louse in.

The doorman greets them as they make their way inside, and Shizuo bows to him. He’s so surprised that he almost closes the door on them.

“Can you cut that out?” The flea asks finally, voice icy while his eyes still don’t leave his phone, “if you keep acting so respectful to the help, they’re going to know something is up and you’ll blow our cover. Do you think these rich humans care if the doorman is having a bad day? Maybe only so they can make it worse.”

He stops to push the elevator button. Shizuo watches the numbers above blinking as it comes down to their level. He’s too ashamed to look anywhere else.

“Humans are especially interesting when given money and power,” Izaya continues, voice low and loving, as though he’s speaking about an old flame, “they become deluded. They liken themselves to Gods. They’re particularly entertaining.”

A chill strikes through Shizuo’s veins at the words, the urge to squash the pest rising as the elevator doors open. The worker inside asks which floor, and Izaya answers as though it’s difficult, not even looking at the kid.

It’s hard, but Shizuo tries not to look at him either, not to thank him as they leave. When Izaya passes, back turned, he gives the kid a small, quick bow.

He can be new money, he reasons, someone who has actually worked at a real job before, unlike Izaya.

Their room looks the same when they return. Ota-san is taking a few things out of a grocery bag on the coffee table, and he seems a little upset as Shizuo and Izaya enter.

“Oh, Heiwajima-san,” he greets, “I thought your shift ended later! I’m terribly sorry, I thought I would surprise you.”

As Shizuo comes closer, he sees what the other man has bought him: a boxset of Yuhei Hanejima movies, a bag of candy that he’s never heard of before, and some sort of gaming system with a few games.

“Koizumi-san has given me an allowance to spend on things you might want, so I thought… since you don’t seem to be asking for anything, maybe I would buy something for you anyway. I do apologize if I have overstepped my boundaries.”

Shizuo’s eyes sting a little and his ears feel hot. He picks up the candy, reading through the description and wondering how expensive this sort of thing is.

“Get married already,” Izaya croons, still not looking up from his phone, “at least turn your butler down gently, Shizu-chan. He seems to have it bad for you.”

Unfortunately for him, he’s not paying enough attention when Shizuo launches the bag of candy across the room and decks him right in the back of the head, but fortunately for Shizuo, it makes a very pleasing ‘whack’ sound as it connects.

The force of it causes the louse to stumble forward, dropping his phone and whipping his head around to glower at the both of them.

“I’m taking a shower,” he spits, one hand on the back of his head as the other fetches his phone from the floor, “Try not to break your butler’s back if things get too serious, Shizu-chan.”

After he slinks away, Shizuo turns to apologize to Ota-san, but the older man seems more amused than anything.

“I’m not sure if I lean that way,” he chuckles, “I’m sorry if I’ve given you an odd perception, Heiwajima-san, but you actually remind me of my son. I’m sorry if missing him has caused me to coddle you too much.”

That’s what causes Shizuo to become rattled, however, because Izaya’s comments are gross and uncalled for and he never would have taken something like that seriously, but this…

Well, the idea that Ota-san could liken him to someone as gentle and innocent as a child is quite an emotional confession.

“Does your son have a temper?” he asks, wandering over to pick up the candy and checking to see if the bag burst. It didn’t, but he thinks some of the candy might have gotten smashed. Stupid, brick-headed louse.

Ota-san laughs heartily, sitting down on the couch and fiddling with the plastic-wrap around the Yuhei Hanejima boxset.

“Not really, but he’s only ten, so he has his share of outbursts,” Ota-san has a soft look in his eyes, “both of you look at the world in a different way than most people though, like everything should be cherished. You hold things as though they’re more fragile than they are—candy, toys, and… people.”

Shizuo can’t really move, he’s so mortified. His chest hurts, and the candy feels really heavy in his hands. He doesn’t like the way Ota-san just spoke through him, as though he’s picked apart Shizuo’s heart and found the most sensitive spot to tug. As though Ota-san hasn’t done his research and learned how much of a monster Shizuo is, as though he doesn’t know how his horrible strength can tear through anything if he’s not careful.

“Don’t compare me to your son,” his voice is gravely and strained, he feels like his throat is going to collapse, “You don’t want him to be like me.”

Ota-san’s eyes are large and round as he sputters apologies. He seems a little terrified, and Shizuo thinks maybe he overdid it. He’s not angry enough to do anything rash, just a little hurt, he decides. He hates the thought of Ota-san getting the wrong idea about him, that he regards Shizuo as anything less than a loaded gun.

“Ah, I’m very sorry,” Ota-san sighs, hands shaking, “he also loves sweets more than anything else. I thought he would grow out of it, but after meeting you, I think maybe I was wrong.”

He wonders if his sweet tooth getting out of control.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiki is garbage, that much he knows is true.

Izaya finds himself sitting on the toilet, fresh out of the shower as the water continues to beat against the pristine tile, masking his words from the monster and his assistant outside. His damp hair clings to his face, beads of water running down his neck, along his naked chest and into the dip of his belly and jutting hips.

“Of course I knew that Heiwajima would be joining you,” Shiki reiterates, seeming like he’s really enjoying himself. Izaya can hear the muffled screams of someone in the background, “You wouldn’t have gone if I’d have told you, but the money is too good to pass up. Do you understand how much Koizumi-san is paying us?”

Izaya wants to hang up, he really does, but he’s not sure what he’ll do afterward if he does.

The back of his head aches, a small migraine concentrated right where Shizu-chan hit him, and he really doesn’t want to sneak by the monster like he’s been defeated somehow, even though he just doesn’t want to start a fight and ruin everything.

And seeing the blond and that fat man together is so frustrating—acting like they’re best friends when Shizu-chan has barely even been here for a day. What kind of grown man buys gifts for another man anyway? It’s gross, really, like he’s a schoolgirl with a crush, and Shizu-chan is playing right into his perverted game. He doesn’t want to be around when the old man makes a lecherous move and Shizu-chan throws him through a window.

Just the thought of the guy running a palm over the monster’s long, thin thigh, or brushing his lips across the vast milky softness of Shizu-chan’s collarbone causes a strange heat to wrap around inside of his gut. Anger, he reasons, which is normal because of the sneaky way Shizu-chan slides into the lives of others so easily, and something else that he doesn’t want to dwell on.

Shiki is repeating his name over and over, growing in volume, and the voice in the background is begging for something.

“I’m here,” Izaya sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The screaming is the only thing he hears for a second. He concentrates on the sound of it, relishing the suffering of a human that he wishes he could have met.

“Listen,” Shiki says then, firmly, “You’re not going to get this, but hear me out: If you let your dick do the thinking and mess up this job, I’m going to break your knees, got it?”

And before Izaya can object or even question him, the line clicks and Shiki’s voice and the screaming are both gone.

He has absolutely no idea what Shiki could have meant by that, and it’s bothersome. He’s never told the yakuza about his sexuality, obviously, so as far as they know, he’s a single-celled organism who can’t even think of such a thing.

Surely they would assume that he has a normal sex drive, that he’s not so deranged as not to divulge himself from time to time, but why would this even be an issue now?

Maybe Shiki knows how cute the girls are at his job, but that’s probably not it. He’s done numerous other jobs with even cuter girls, and it’s never proven to be a problem. It’s bizarre to even consider why Shiki would feel the need to say such a thing, and to threaten him no less, and he tries to forget about it for now.

He’ll have to ask when he gets back home, because the mob boss definitely isn’t going to feel like talking right now.

The water is probably nice and cold for Shizu-chan by now, so he turns it off. It’s a shame that there’s no scale here. He’ll have to mention something to Yuuki, who might have quit, for all he knows. He hasn’t seen him since earlier today. Oh well.

Well, he realizes belatedly, he’s forgotten to bring clothes. The idea of putting on the dirty ones from earlier is disgusting, so he settles for wrapping a towel around his waist.

_‘Shizu-chan thinks he can parade around naked, so I can too.’_

He pretends that he didn’t just think of that again, and gathers up his things, hoping that Shizu-chan has moved to his room as he opens the door and steam rolls out around him.

Of course, he’s disappointed.

The protozoan and that damn butler both look at him as he leaves the bathroom. The towel seems to cling just a little too tightly to his thighs as he walks through toward his room, the air too cold against his heated skin. No one says a word, not as he stumbles by, so close that Shizu-chan could reach out and feel the goosebumps raising on his arms, and not when he fumbles with his doorknob just a little too long before finally getting the stupid thing open.

What a nightmare. Really, the worst way to end a day.

Within the safety of his room, he’s frantic to put on a pair of pajamas. He grabs the first pair he can find—they’re all soft anyway—and buries himself under the blankets in his bed. He flips through his texts. Namie is complaining about having to work even while he’s gone, and he’s sure by the way she says it that she’s not actually working. He should probably tell her about the security cameras in his apartment, lest she get any indecent ideas while she’s alone, but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun as blackmailing her later.

There are a few texts from various clients, even though they were all informed of his vacation, and a new one from a number he doesn’t recognize.

_‘Don’t fret too much, Orihara-san. Your secret is safe with me.’_

He ignores it for a bit, rolling over on his back and slipping in and out of sleep, wishing he’d thought to turn off the light before jumping into bed.

In his dream, there are big hands running over his skin, calloused and rough. Those hands are so cool compared to how hot he’s burning, like he has a fever, and they spread his legs so slowly that he feels more vulnerable than he thinks he ever has before. They touch him in indecent places, but only briefly, and when his phone chimes and wakes him violently from this nap, he’s a little more than annoyed when he notices the way his pajama pants pull against the erection bulging underneath.

_‘Do you touch yourself thinking of him, or have you not even admitted it to yourself?’_

He really doesn’t know what to make of this, and he wonders if maybe someone is playing a trick on him. After such a weird encounter with Shiki, he’s a little on edge, and he really wants to tell this stranger off for implying that Orihara Izaya thinks of anyone when he touches himself, but he’s definitely not going to let that much of himself bleed through in texts.

_‘Is this a person I should be aware of, or are you trying to prank me?’_

It doesn’t sound as condescending as he’d like, but he’s too tired to care about it. This person obviously knows him, so it’s not worth intimidating them at the cost of sleep.

Finally, he makes the trek across the room to turn off the light. As he slips under the blankets again, his phone beeps.

_‘Does it make you hot when he hurts you? Are you a masochist, Orihara-san? Do you fantasize about him fucking you so hard that you can’t walk straight for a week?’_

Well, at the very least, these annoying messages have killed any need he might have felt swelling in the pit of his stomach. He’s more of the pampered type, he wants to reassure them, all play and no work, but that would just fuel them, he’s sure.

Just as he’s about to reply, three more messages ding, one after another, as though this person is trying to beat him to the punch. The clock on his phone tells him that it’s far too late to be messing around like this.

_‘Do you call out his name when you think you’re alone?’_

_‘Do you writhe in the safety of your big, empty bed, gripping yourself so tightly that it hurts, because it’s as close as you can get to the way he would surely break you if you could ever get near enough?’_

_‘It’s okay, Orihara-san. I don’t think you’re his type either.’_

This is just perplexing, he muses, truly at a loss for words.

In the end, he decides to just turn his phone on silent, sticking it on the charger and turning it face-down on the nightstand.

His dreams are a troubling mix of big hands and blond hair for the rest of the night, and when he wakes up in the morning, he ignores the five new texts and checks the time, breath labored and skin slick with sweat. He’s thankful for such roomy pajama pants, even if they’re feeling a little snug.

He still has another hour before he wants to start getting ready, and another two hours before the beast will surely roll out of bed, so he thinks he’s safe as he sets his phone down and pulls the blanket over his head.

It’s still dark outside, so he can’t see anything in his little self-made cocoon, but he doesn’t really need to as he pulls down the waist of his pajama pants, scraping his nails over the tiny patch of hair just below his navel.

The hands in his dreams were familiar, but he knows better than to dwell on it. He has a sinking feeling that he would be disgusted with himself if he knew which innocent human has gotten him so hot and bothered, and secretly, he blames Shiki for even reminding him of his body’s wants and needs.

He thinks of the feeling of those fingers teasing his shaft, pushing against his thighs, dipping inside of him—

He keens, gritting his teeth as he touches himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the first chapter of this story I've written that's already way too long. So far, I've written about 31,000 words, but I thought it might be kind of mean to dump something that long on this site as though anyone has the time to read in one sitting. That being said, I'll try to update at least twice a week, so hopefully I won't catch up to where I've left off writing too soon.
> 
> This story has been extremely fun to write so far, and I hope it will be fun to read. I thought to myself, 'I want to write a story about Shizuo and Izaya working in a restaurant', and then I remembered that I also wanted to write about them being spies, then I ended up throwing everything I wanted to write into one story. It was really hard figuring out where to leave this chapter off, so I figured, 'Eh, let's just leave off with Izaya yankin' it.'
> 
> Anyway, thank you for taking the time to start this story! I hope the rest of it doesn't disappoint you!


	2. Mysterious Forces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya is not a love-struck schoolgirl.

When Izaya finally slips from his room into the common area, he’s disgusted to find that Shizu-chan and that butler of his have fallen asleep watching one of his brother’s corny movies.

He steps toward them, the meager light from the television illuminating Shizu-chan’s sleeping face in a soft, blue hue. The monster looks peaceful, deceptively so, and he clicks his tongue at the thought of it.

It’s hard to tear away his eyes though. He thinks he’s holding out because it would be so easy to kill the brute right in this very moment, if only it wouldn’t ruin their mission. Or, even better, he could kill the butler and pin it on Shizu-chan and his horrible strength! It would be so funny to see the broken look on the idiot’s face as he wakes up to find his beloved servant’s skull bashed in!

But there’s a tugging within his ribs that makes it all seem a lot less funny, and finally, with one last, long look at Shizu-chan’s slumbering face, he saunters into the bathroom.

His hair is a little wild when he turns on the light and looks himself in the mirror, so he wets it down, brushes his teeth, then washes his face.

When he returns to his room to change, he thinks of his phone. He might as well reply to whoever is harassing him. The sooner he finds out who they are, the sooner he can _play_ with them as payment for their behavior the night prior.

_‘Have you become so consumed with ecstasy that you can’t even reply?’_

_‘Have my accusations scared you away?’_

_‘Admit it, Orihara-san, you can’t shake the need to be dominated by another man. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re very beautiful, like a woman. And like a woman, you should let yourself be fucked hard by the man you pine after. Just give in.’_

He thinks they’re getting a little desperate, too gross, but in order to delete the texts, he has to open them.

_‘I imagine that you’re touching yourself right now, thinking about the bruises he would leave on you.’_

And, finally:

_‘Your precious Shizu-chan doesn’t swing that way, Orihara-san, but if you’d like, I can take you in his place. I promise, I’ll only hurt you if you’ll like it.’_

He slams his phone down on the nightstand. Someone is definitely messing with him.

 _‘And badly,’_ he thinks, hands trembling slightly, _‘do they really think I’d fall for a beast like that? For someone so disgustingly non-human?’_

He stares at the floor for a while, focusing on evening out his breathing. As the sun starts to peek through the curtains, he gets dressed, slipping on his work shirt under a sweater so he won’t have to worry about changing again. It’s a little annoying, hiding any signs of their temporary wealth from their job, and hiding any signs of their temporary job from the people at the hotel, but it’s nothing unmanageable. He’s sure Shizu-chan will just continue to change in public like a shameless dog.

 _‘You’ve got me all wrong,’_ he texts back finally, _‘I love only humans, not monsters, but I could never choose just one. Sorry to let you down.’_

He gets another text immediately, causing him to wonder if his stalker ever sleeps.

_‘I’ll be seeing you later today. Please wear something cute.’_

It’s unsettling, but after he deletes all of the texts and saves the number under _‘Pervert’,_ he tries to forget the entire thing.

 

* * *

 

 

Kyou-chan is telling a story about a man she met on a dating site and this big, hairy mole that she couldn’t stop staring at, right under his lip, all through their dinner together.

“He was very sweet, and great in bed,” she says, so casual that he almost misses it, “but how could I call him back?! What if our children were to inherit _the mole_?!”

Everyone is laughing at her story. He wonders what Chiyo would say if Kyou slept with her boyfriend? Who would quit first?

“You know, it’s easy enough to get those removed,” he says, chipper as he can be, “your children could still be beautiful!”

Kyou-chan ponders that. They’re barely even working, but he likes to watch them talk more anyway.

 A small buzzer goes off, signaling that the front door has been opened, and he sighs, making his way to greet the customer as the girls talk about the cost of removal.

“Welcome,” he calls through the curtain, grinning widely as he steps into the room, “How can we help you today?”

He almost has a heart attack as he realizes that he knows the man across the counter from him—big shoulders, hard jaw, dark, leathery skin—

“Koizumi-san…?”

The older man bows, a strange glint in his eyes. He’s dressed in a smart suit, such dark blue that it almost looks black, and his hair is slick with product.

“I would like to order a cake,” he says, not missing a beat, “this place does do cakes, right?”

Izaya isn’t so quick to retaliate, and although his mask stays in place, there’s an awkward beat between Koizumi’s question and the odd voice in which he replies.

“Of course, sir,” he replies, wondering if the man is here to tip him off on a new lead, “would you like to see a menu?”

“Just pick what you like,” Koizumi draws out, tone a little too satiny smooth for his liking, “Address it to _‘Shizu-chan’_ from _‘Iza-chan’_ , _‘I love you more than anything; I touch myself to the sound of your voice’._ ”

Tomoko-san pokes her head through the curtain at that exact moment, and it seems that she’s heard at least a little of what has been said. Izaya is mortified, but Koizumi smiles at her.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, and it takes everything Izaya has not to tell her that this man is a pervert and he needs to go.

He nods though, telling her that he wants to order a cake for an ex-girlfriend, and she eyes him doubtfully for a moment before disappearing again behind the curtain.

“Did you get my texts?” Koizumi asks when he’s sure she’s gone, fingers drumming against the counter.

This is too much so early in his shift, he thinks. This job will not be worth it if every day is going to give him such anxiety. He plans to charge Shiki for every gray hair he finds after this month is through.

“Listen,” he says, voice finally serious, eyes hardening, “Fukayama is going to call soon and ask if Tomoko-san can send a rep over to take down requests. You absolutely have to be on that team, understood? I want you to case the place. I know you’ll remember, but make sure Heiwajima-san has a map to study. And make sure he actually studies it.”

Izaya only nods, struggling to keep the smile on his face, lest anyone see the two of them talking.

“Of course, sir,” he chimes in, “what time will you be here to pick it up?”

Koizumi gives him a predatory look, leaning a little too far forward on the counter, their noses only centimeters away.

“On second thought, I think I’ll wait,” he coos, breath hot against Izaya’s face, “Unless you would like to deliver it to me personally.”

Izaya thinks that he might need to call a lawyer about sexual harassment in the work place, but before he can articulate the words, Koizumi is leaving with a jingle of the bell, waving goodbye through the glass.

“What a creep,” Tomoko-san’s voice interjects suddenly, startling him enough that he twitches a little, “Do you know him? I feel bad for that Shizu-chan. Poor girl is being pursued by a total pervert.”

 _‘It’s me he’s pursuing!_ ’ He wants to scream, _‘Feel sorry for me! Not that idiot Shizu-chan!’_

But of course he just laughs, agreeing with her lightheartedly like he isn’t dying just a little bit inside.

“Oh, our big client called while you were helping this guy,” she says, handing him a notebook and a small pile of papers, “He wants someone to come over and discuss what we plan to do. The kitchen is short-staffed and we’re cooking for a funeral today, so would you mind? If you’re nervous, you can bring one of the girls with you. I know Chiyo-san has been dying to see how beautiful the estate is.”

He nods, wondering how Koizumi, or any human for that matter, could possess such a shockingly acute sixth sense.

“She can come if she wants to see,” he tells her as sweetly as his voice allows, “I might need a little help remembering everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shizuo can feel his stomach growling and it’s pissing him off.

The food in the kitchen smells heavenly, and since he and Ota-san woke up so late today, of course they missed breakfast. He’s helping Tomoko-san and the kitchen crew load dishes into a large van, which he and Tomoko-san will take to a funeral nearby and set out for the guests.

A buzzer calls out overhead, and Tomoko-san says something about making sure Maki-kun doesn’t need any help and wanders off. One of the cooks skewers a dumpling and offers it to him as soon as she disappears.

“You look a little pale,” the guy says, grinning.

He takes it with a bashful _‘thank you’_.

Everyone has been more than nice to him since he arrived here, and he wonders how nice they would be if they knew who he really was. On one hand, the stress of not exposing himself is overwhelming. The effort it takes to hold back when someone starts complaining about stupid things, or when someone makes a rude joke makes him lightheaded, and sometimes he can feel his head swimming so intensely that he needs to sit down for a moment.

On the other hand, it’s nice to be treated like a human by everyone, like no one has any reason to think ill of him. Like maybe… he’s the person that he feels like on his good days.

When Tomoko-san returns, she seems a little pissed off, but he doesn’t say anything about it. One of the cooks comments on the way she’s glaring, joking that she’s going to get wrinkles way too early if she keeps looking like that, and she scoffs, packing up the platter of dumplings and placing it on the cart that she’s asked Shizuo to hold steady so it doesn’t roll away.

“Some pervert was harassing Maki-kun,” she huffs, dumping an entire container of soy sauce into a gigantic bowl and slapping a lid on it, placing it on the cart, “he was trying to order a cake that said something like _‘I touch myself thinking about you, Shizu-chan’_.”

He flinches at the sound of the nickname, his movements jiggling the cart.

Everyone looks at him then, and he knows why. He’s trembling with rage. Tomoko-san laughs then, putting a hand on the cart to hold it still.

“You really don’t like perverted things like that, do you, Hayashi-kun?” she asks, “You seem very old-fashioned, really. I noticed the looks you kept giving Maki-kun when you met him. I hope you can look beyond his persuasion and see him as a normal person.”

This is all happening too fast, he realizes, that familiar blurring sweeping over his thoughts.

“W-what?” he croaks, balancing himself on the cart, “What do you mean by that? His _‘persuasion’_?”

She tells him that it’s okay, she doesn’t think he’s a bad person for feeling uncomfortable. One of the cooks says he would have beaten up the guy if he’d called him cute like that, and Shizuo is so lost by the time his head stops spinning.

His thoughts are a little clearer by the time they’ve finished packing all of the food in the truck, but he doesn’t understand who would be saying such gross things to Izaya in the first place. Only a few people know about his and Izaya’s identities, and none of them are as disgusting as the flea. It pisses him off even thinking about someone using his name like that, even if it is just the horrible nickname that the louse gave him.

Of course, he doesn’t expect for Izaya to tell him anything. They’ve barely interacted since they started staying together.

The ride to the funeral is a quiet one, with Tomoko-san occasionally telling soft stories about the buildings they pass. Her voice is very soothing and his muscles gradually relax.

“I don’t hate Maki-kun,” he says after a long stretch of silence, “He’s annoying, but I don’t hate him. Don’t worry about us.”

Tomoko-san seems surprised to hear it (and so is he, really), but she smiles nonetheless. They pull into the parking lot of a large, tan colored building, driving around to the back, where she parks the van.

“I know it’s a little odd to have a funeral party at a community center,” she chimes in, mistaking his curiosity about where they are for curiosity about why they’re here, “but it was a big funeral. This guy was a pretty popular teacher.”

He nods, and only as they’re unloading the food and carrying it through the back door does she address what he’s told her.

“I thought maybe you didn’t like him because he’s gay.”

Shizuo nearly drops the food when he hears it, stumbling forward so dangerously that Tomoko-san calls out for him.

“G-gay?!” He cries, adrenaline suddenly pulsing through his veins, “you think he’s gay?”

Tomoko-san looks at him as though he’s lost his mind.

“…Duh,” she replies, setting the food she’s carrying on a long table and spreading it out, “Did you really not get that vibe from him? I thought he was going to try to eat you alive.”

He’s not quite sure what to do, so he just sets his share of food down. He’s doesn’t know if he should tell her or not that the flea isn’t gay, just really strange.

“The other girls say he looks at your butt every time you leave the room,” she adds, moving to the food he’s set down and shuffling it in an order than only she can understand, “Chiyo-san said she even caught him looking at the front of your pants. Please don’t take this the wrong way, Hayashi-kun, but you’re cute like an idol, and it’s not crazy to think that a guy like Maki-kun would feel drawn to you. Whether you think he’s a lost soul or not, please be nice to him.”

He makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, so appalled that he’s trembling with the need to break something.

“Excuse me,” he says curtly, not even waiting for her reply before dragging himself through the back door.

He sneaks behind the dumpster, punching it with a deafening ‘ _clang’,_ before counting his breathing in the way Tom-san taught him.

Tomoko-san finds him around _‘78’,_ when the sweat has finally dried at his hairline and he’s calm enough to remember to stand in front of the gigantic dent in the dumpster when she approaches.

“I’m sorry,” she greets, before he can even muster the strength to talk, “It was unfair of me to make that confession for him. I don’t know if you’re like that or not and I just made an assumption without even considering your feelings. I know you both take the bus together, so I’ve probably made things awkward.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he stays silent.

“I’ve just been so worried that you might get mad about the way he’s been looking at you and try to fight him! You’re both such model employees that I would hate to have to fire you for fighting. I could deal with it if I caught you guys messing around, but violence is out of the question!”

He wants to punch the dumpster again, but resists. She can’t honestly think he would be interested in that little rodent, can she?

“He’s annoying,” he says, face hot, “I don’t like him, but I won’t fight him at work.”

He thinks about Izaya checking him out. Why? Why would the louse be looking at him like that? Is he trying to make all of their coworkers think something might be going on between them? Is he trying to be funny? Is he plotting something sinister? The possibilities float around in Shizuo’s head, dizzying and confusing.

It pisses him off.

 

* * *

 

 

Chiyo is not a lot of help, honestly. All she can do is rant about the beauty of the estate, cooing at every table and painting, shrieking at the sight of every winding staircase and vaulted ceiling.

Izaya is scribbling down a map in his notebook, adding little notes in the margins about whatever Fukayama’s assistant is telling him. He tells the man, when he asks, that a map will come in handy when they try to figure out where their staff will go, and he doesn’t need to explain much further than that.

The entire ordeal takes about an hour. His phone vibrates at they’re headed out, and he smothers a groan when the word _‘Pervert’_ appears next to _‘From:’_.

_‘Thinking about that cute little ass of yours. Would you let me cum inside? Do you think the strength of his sperm would tear you apart?’_

“That’s pretty gross,” Chiyo calls over his shoulder, “Are you being harassed? Do you have a stalker?”

He tells her not to be nosy as tries to keep his mask in place, regardless of how completely exhausting this day has become.

“I thought you said you were single,” she replies only a moment later, “Who is the guy the pervert’s talking about?”

He sighs, slipping his phone back in his pocket as it goes off again.

“I have a complicated thing going on,” he figures lying won’t hurt anyone when he’s using a false identity anyway, “Very on-again-off-again. One moment, I think _‘I want this person very badly’_ and another, I’m thinking _‘I hate them so much that I wish they would choke to death on my hatred’_.”

There’s an unusual, heavy feeling settling in his gut, like he’s giving too much away, but he knows he’s just making this up, so what does he have to be afraid of? It’s not like any of this is true at all. It’s not like he could bring himself to feel like that about any single human.

Chiyo cocks her head, hands in her pockets as they begin the walk back to work.

“That’s weird. I was sure you had a thing for Hayashi-kun. I really thought the image of his crotch would have been burned into your memory by now, but every time, you still look!”

She’s completely incorrect. He can’t remember a single instance in which he’s looked longer than maybe a second at Shizu-chan’s nether regions. There’s nothing wrong with his eyes just ending up there when he’s lost in thought! It doesn’t mean anything!

He stops dead in his tracks, thoughts racing past him so quickly that he can barely keep up. Chiyo almost walks right by him, but stops only a step ahead, turning quickly and asking if he’s okay.

How long has he been sneaking these little looks at Shizu-chan? Since high school? How many times has the idiot crossed his mind, occupying his thoughts longer than any human or monster can manage? Shiki told him not to think with his dick during an argument about Shizu-chan, Koizumi has been harassing him about the monster all day long, and everyone around him seems to be picking up on the way he’s been slipping, the way his gaze has become so hungry and desperate just because the blond has been within his grasp.

He thinks of Shizu-chan’s butler, the rage that boils in his blood when he steals the blond’s attention away. He laments the joy of the chase, the lonely, needy feeling he squashes every time it eats away at his heart by simply pushing the protozoan into another fight.

It’s been six months since they last fought, and he laments the length of the days that had passed, separating them further and further. He remembers waking up one morning a month ago, so early that he’d watched the sunrise. The world felt like a hollow shell as he’d looked into the darkness, noted the way the black dragged out the brilliant yellows and reds of the sun. He remembers that Namie had come in for work hours later and she’d made a comment about how tired he’d looked.

_“You’ll have to go back to Ikebukuro to recharge,” she’d droned offhandedly._

He hadn’t understood it at the time, but oh, does he now. He thinks of the first day the met, the joy of meeting a true monster. He thinks of all the years that he lived only to be the bane of the brute’s existence.

And he thinks, in the smallest, darkest crevice of his mind, about how time slowly morphed hatred into admiration, and admiration into—

His phone is going nuts. Chiyo is calling out to him, but he can’t move. The world around him is muted and grayscale. All he can hear is his heartbeat drumming in his ears and the ragged way he’s breathing.

“I, “his voice breaks, throat dry, “I think—“

Chiyo is standing directly in front of him, holding him by the shoulder. He can barely feel her hand. He can barely hear her talking to him. He looks up at her, eyes wide, brows high.

“I’m in love with Shizu-chan.”

 

* * *

 

 

The bus ride home is understandably awkward.

Izaya is ignoring him, and that’s just fine. He makes a point of setting his work shirt in his lap, hoping to thwart wandering louse eyes.

He bows at the doorman again, and Izaya says nothing. He’s looking a little pallid, if Shizuo is completely honest with himself, but of course he’s not going to mention it.

He doesn’t say anything when Shizuo thanks the bellhop, or even when he greets the maid while she folds towels in the hall. He won’t admit it, but he’s trying to get a reaction and Izaya just isn’t biting.

The flea goes right into his room when they enter their suite. Ota-san had already texted him earlier to say that he’s going to stay home tonight, but to call him if he needs anything. Of course, Shizuo would never imagine making the guy get out of bed for whatever stupid crap he might need, but he does feel a little lonely already.

He texts Ota-san to tell him that they’ve gotten home okay, and he ends up mentioning that Izaya is acting strange just for good measure. It won’t be much of a mystery, but if he gets murdered in the middle of the night, he wants everyone to have a clear picture of who managed to do it.

Ota-san replies, _‘There are many things going on with him right now, Heiwajima-san. Please try not to stress yourself out about it. He has everything under control.’_

It’s a weird text, vaguely unsettling, but he accepts it anyway. He decides to turn on the TV and watch something, although TV usually puts him on edge. It’s not late enough yet that he’s tired, and he doesn’t feel like taking a bath, so he finds an action movie on some random channel and zones out to it.

 

* * *

 

 

Izaya thinks maybe he should switch to his spare phone. This is getting absolutely ridiculous, these dirty texts, and he doesn’t think he’s getting paid nearly enough to put up with it. Can the pervert leave him alone? Is he too much of a coward to send this garbage to Shizu-chan?

Okay, it’s a bad idea to even think about Shizu-chan, he realizes, as his heart flips at the thought.

_‘Tell me what you’re wearing. Will you dress up in something slutty for your first night alone with Shizu-chan?’_

_‘Does it rile you up thinking about whether or not he’s touched himself in his hotel room?’_

_‘How much extra would it cost to let me fuck you over that counter in Tomoko’s?’_

Disgusting.

 _‘Why don’t you try this on someone your own age, you old pervert?’_ He replies, already so done with this entire exchange, this whole bit that Koizumi apparently thinks is extra hilarious. He doubts Shizu-chan’s butler would have left them alone on purpose. He knows the old bastard has ordered him to stay away just so he can harass Izaya about the situation.

He doesn’t want to even think about Shizu-chan on the other side of the door: what he’s doing or isn’t doing or where his hands are. Falling in love with the monster isn’t going to stop him from killing it. On the contrary, he feels that he has all the more reason to take the blond out once and for all, to spare all of humanity from that disastrous rage and rid himself of these appalling emotions.

His phone beeps for the billionth time. He needs to change his ringtone.

_‘I’ll stop only if you send me a picture of yourself. A dirty one.’_

He throws his phone across the room. The sound of it smacking against the wall is pleasing, no matter how expensive it was. He’s brought three, so he’s not hurting.

After enough time has passed that he figures Shizu-chan has retired to his room, he risks a trip to the shower. He opens the door, peering out into the room, and almost shuts is again when he sees that familiar blond head peeking over the couch. A resounding snore stop him.

 _‘What an animal,’_ he thinks, raising a brow, _‘just falling asleep anywhere.’_

He slips his sweater off and lets it fall to the floor behind him. He’s still wearing his work shirt, black, short-sleeved, with a heart and the title _‘Tomoko’s’_ on the left side of his chest, _“Making your life better”_ scrawled in large, looping letters across the back. Shizu-chan is still wearing his too, and he decides that the brute looks more ridiculous in it than he does.

He makes his way around the couch, watching Shizuo’s face as he goes. He notes the gentle rising and falling of his chest, his eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks, mouth open only slightly as he seems to melt into the cushions. There’s a movie playing softly in the background, and Izaya thinks he’d never be able to sleep like this.

In a moment of insanity, he lets his body carry him one step forward, then two, and then he’s placing a knee on the couch just outside of Shizu-chan’s thigh, bringing his entire body into the monster’s lap. His dick twitches at their close proximity, skin tingling with electricity as he rests a hand just centimeters away from the protozoan’s head.

He smells like food, shampoo, and smoke. His hair tickles Izaya’s hand, breath a soft, hot breeze along his skin as he pulls his head closer, close enough to see Shizu-chan’s teeth peeking through the crack of his lips.

He watches like that for a long moment, hovering above the monster, feeling the strength of his soul coursing through his veins. It’s a powerful feeling, sitting this close to a beast without fear of violence, not caring if the idiot wakes up and pounds him into the coffee table.

Er—maybe not the best choice of words, but he’s not going to dwell on it.

He brings his other hand to cup the monster’s face. His skin is so much softer than expected. He doesn’t stir at all, doesn’t even grumble, on the contrary, he seems to lean into the touch.

 _‘You’re so lonely that you’ll accept the hand of your worst enemy,’_ he thinks, grinning cruelly, resisting the urge to stab him, _‘So sad, so pathetic. Poor little Shizu-chan.’_

He moves closer then, lips ghosting over that soft skin. Shizu-chan is so warm, vibrating with life even in sleep. Izaya thinks maybe he can understand why humans are so attracted to the monster, like moths to a big light, like Icarus reaching helplessly for the sun.

But he’s the only one who can touch the brute like this and not get his fingers burned, even if it’s a secret and even if the moron will never know.

 _‘I’m falling in love with you,’_ he admits silently, only to himself, _‘And I’m not sure who I hate more for it: you, or me.’_

He kisses Shizuo then, for a long time—seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours—and his skin seems to set on fire, seems to be pulsing with need. Even when limp and lifeless, Shizu-chan’s lips are soft enough that he feels something heavy in his heart, like he might cry, like he wants to go and hide in his room for the rest of the time they’re here.

Shizu-chan’s breathing doesn’t change, he doesn’t wake up, and Izaya pulls away finally, climbing off of him and slinking into the bathroom.

 _‘I hope you smother to death in your sleep,’_ he thinks, _‘I hate you so much.’_

* * *

 

 

When Shizuo wakes up, he’s not really sure why, but he feels warm. His lips, specifically, and the entire room reeks of flea. He wipes his face with both hands, checking to see if anything has come off, but it doesn’t appear so. He can hear the shower running from the bathroom, wondering if that will amplify or mask the stench, or if Izaya will actually wear clothes this time before wandering around in the suite.

He’s already thinking about earlier this day, what Tomoko-san told him about Izaya. She’s imagining things, he’s sure, and he wonders if he should tell Izaya that everyone at work thinks he plays for the same team. It might wipe that smug look off of the louse’s face, but at the same time, he’s not really sure if the little eyesore can even be attracted to anyone, or if he would just laugh and repeat for the billionth time that he loves every human except for Shizuo.

It’s strange, living together like this, even if it’s only been a couple of days. He doesn’t feel like they’ve done anything but work at the catering company and he wonders how much Izaya has been doing behind the scenes. He knows that the informant was right, he really is just around because he’s sturdy and strong, and even without a reputation, it’s easy for him to scare the life out of someone just by breaking metal in his hands or lifting a vending machine over his head. Izaya is the one who is cunning and the one who will carry the both of them through this until the end. When the louse finally settles in his rightful place in the shadows, Shizuo will strike, quick and deadly, and grab their prize.

That much seems like a spy movie, like Kasuka should come running in the room any minute now wearing a leather bodysuit and dodging lasers, but what they’re living now is more of a bizarre game of house.

Maybe this is more of a game of _‘predator stalking its prey’_. Izaya visited the estate today to case it, so he’ll surely have some information for him. If he could get the bastard to talk, then maybe he would stop feeling like this job has been too hastily thrown together.

He can hear the shower shut off, and it takes awhile for the flea to leave the bathroom after. He’s in just a towel again, and Shizuo thinks maybe they should post a reminder on the bathroom door to bring pajamas before taking a bath.

“Flea,” he greets, an unpleasant feeling twitching in his muscles and rising in his throat, “you have something for me, right?”

Izaya looks at him like he’s grown a second head, and only after eying him for a few too many heartbeats does he seem to realize what Shizuo means.

“Tomoko-chan told you that I visited the estate?” he questions, and while Shizuo knows that he is referring to their fake boss in an informal way just to piss him off, it still manages to piss him off anyway.

He leaves for a few minutes and Shizuo can hear him digging around in his room. The flea scent is a little weaker now, but it still seems to cling to his clothes and face, like the bastard has bathed him in louse perfume in his sleep.

When Izaya appears again, he’s dressed in a loose pair of red pajamas. They look like they might be women’s, but Shizuo isn’t sure. They’re shiny and thin, and he realizes that he’s never seen the flea like this before. He knows Izaya is probably still hiding a knife on him somewhere, but this domestic version of the informant allows him to relax, if only just a little.

Izaya sits just a little too close to him, and the flea stench is strong again. He sets a few papers down on the table and uncaps a pen. Shizuo thinks for a moment that he’s stolen blueprints, but he’s shocked when he realizes that they’re hand-drawn.

“See,” the louse says, pointing at a staircase leading into a long hallway upstairs, “If you travel this way, Fukayama’s room is at the very end of the hall. My suggestion would be to sneak up there during his big speech and wait for him to come. He’s going to be donating some money, so he’ll probably head to his room later to fill out the check. It’s a long ways away from all of the partygoers, so if you need to break his legs, just make sure you close the door and no one will hear his screams.”

He smiles sweetly then, drawing a little star in bright red ink inside of the bedroom.

“Try to act a little sick the day of the party,” he adds, labelling each room along the hall, “not sick enough for Tomoko-chan to send you home, but sick enough that she won’t question when you slip away.”

He flips to another paper, which is a glossy photograph of a handsome man with smooth, pale skin, dark eyes, and short brown hair. There’s a long scar running from the left side of his jaw and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. He’s on the phone in the picture, completely unaware that he’s being watched, and it makes Shizuo uncomfortable when he thinks of the informant being able to sneak such close pictures of a person without their knowledge.

“This is Fukayama Hiroto,” he says, even though Shizuo has easily figured it out, “he borrowed money from Koizumi to fund his clothing company, but that’s just a front. The store is a cover so they can smuggle heroin in and out of the city. A lot of gangs are very angry about this since it cuts into their profits, including my affiliates and Koizumi. You see, the money is important, but this is about more than that.”

He fixes Shizuo with a sly grin, scribbling little ‘x’s over Fukayama’s eyes.

“It’s about revenge.”

He looks too adorable in his silky pajamas to be saying such horrifying things, and Shizuo doesn’t let himself be bothered by that thought as he reaches forward and messes up Izaya’s wet hair, his strength almost knocking the informant over. His resounding anger is ignored, of course, as he smacks his hands against Shizuo’s, clawing uselessly at his skin.

“It doesn’t really matter why we’re doing it,” he replies, shoving the louse a little for good measure, “stop trying to act so creepy while you’re wearing cute pajamas.”

Izaya looks like he wants to die, even though he’s doing a pretty good job of hiding it. Shizuo thinks he should know better than to try to trick him. That might work on the yakuza and everyone else, but Izaya is his oldest enemy, so of course he can read him! Probably better than anyone else.

“You’re disgusting,” the informant squawks, stumbling away as Shizuo reaches over to mess up his hair again, “Stupid, deranged, filthy monster.”

When he slams his bedroom door, Shizuo takes a long look at the maps and photos, thumbing through a few more pictures of Fukayama before getting up to grab some pajamas from his room. He showers, eats a little bit of cake, and falls asleep on the couch watching another Yuhei Hanejima film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot shorter because I started falling asleep while editing it! I wanted to post something today, so here is something, at least! The next chapter will be longer. As I said before, most of the story is already written by now, but editing it is a lot of work!
> 
> Izaya admitted (to himself, at least) that he's love with Shizuo pretty early in the story. Just at about 20,000 words in, but that doesn't mean that anything is going to get easier for either of them! They're both so stubborn, so it's a lot of fun forcing them to do all of this stuff that they don't want to do. I love the idea of Izaya pining after Shizuo all through high school and just never realizing it! I'd love to write a story about that someday!
> 
> Anyway, before I start rambling too much, thank you for continuing to read this! I'll see you guys later this week!


	3. Vicious Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We live, we laugh, we find ourselves half-naked in hotel laundry rooms at 2AM, and we love.

Morning comes before he knows it, and Izaya is displeased to be awoken by two of his spare cellphones vibrating relentlessly from inside of his luggage. He’s surprised they’re even still charged.  
Both phones notify him that the same number has been spamming him, and he groans as he recognizes the old pervert.  
  
_‘Did Shizu-chan crush your phone in a fit of passion?’  
_  
_‘First base? Second? Home run?’  
_  
_‘Are you walking okay today, Orihara-san? I bet he has a huge—‘  
_  
He tosses the phone back in his bag. Shiki is absolutely paying him more for this job. With Shizu-chan sleeping outside and this wrinkly creep making passes at him at every hour of the day, Izaya feels like he’s being assaulted from all sides.  
  
He sighs. That didn’t sound right at all. He can’t even think straight anymore.  
  
He can hear Shizuo moving around in the living room, and he wonders what the brute is doing up so early in the morning. The sound of shattering glass makes him wince, but only because he’s alone. What a moron. He’s early getting up—work doesn’t start for another three hours—so why is he clamoring around like the world is ending?

  
  
The brute is cussing now. His curiosity is piqued, but he knows better than to confront him while he’s in a mood like this. Izaya still doesn’t know where they stand, and he’s already dealt with so much. It would be agonizing to mess up this job when he’s kept his mouth shut and taken so much abuse for it.  
  
It’s only when he smells smoke that he decides to check it out.  
  
When he opens his door, however, he immediate regrets it.  
  
The mini fridge is on fire. The television is completely shattered. There’s glass and water all over the floor and Shizu-chan is cursing so loudly that he’s surprised someone hasn’t called the police.  
When he looks closer, he can see about a dozen red roses strewn across the floor. There’s a note, slowly dissolving in the puddle, and when Shizu-chan finally manages to douse the fire with a bottle of milk, he turns and glowers in Izaya’s direction.  
  
“You think you’re really fucking funny, don’t you?” He growls, crushing the bottle in his fist.  
  
Izaya puts up his hands in surrender. He’s still so shocked that he can barely say a thing, let alone laugh at this gigantic mess. They might have to get a new hotel room. They might be kicked out of the hotel!  
Shizuo tears into the bathroom, running the sink and letting out a long string of curse words. He leaves the door open, splashing water on his face. He begins to count backwards out loud, his voice shaking with rage.  
  
Izaya blinks—once, twice, three times, four. He finally finds the will to move his legs, stepping forward and avoiding thorns and shards of glass to grab the paper from the floor.  
  
_‘To: Shizu-chan’_ It reads, _‘I want to leave marks on you where no one else can see.’_  
  
He grimaces, bile rising in his throat. Is Koizumi trying to ruin everything? Does he think he’s helping their situation at all? Does he really think Shizu-chan would be wooed by this sort of thing?  
  
Of course not. Izaya knows what he would need to do in order to woo the moron: Make him some cake, hold his hand when he’s sad, wake him up with a gentle kiss and end the day by running his fingers through blond hair while watching those horrendous Kasuka movies. The protozoan likes to be pampered even more than he does, he thinks, only in a sick, _little-brother-older-sister_ kind of way.  
That’s definitely not Izaya’s game, so it won’t work, and that’s fine with him. He wants to express his love by smothering the life out of the blond anyway, embedding a knife so deep into the monster’s heart that _Izaya_ is the only thing he can feel before the light fades from his eyes.  
  
“Shi—“he catches himself as Shizuo turns just a little too quickly to glare at him, “Shi _zu_.. _o_.. Ah, I didn’t send these. Why would I try to rile you up when it will only hurt our mission? I would have liked to have watched some TV too, you know.”  
  
For some reason, this calms the blond down. His shoulders slack, expression settling into something at least slightly less unpleasant. He shuts off the water, and when he glowers out into the living room, Izaya doesn’t miss the look of remorse that flashes across his face. His cheeks are a little red with it, his eyes slightly glassy. Izaya wonders how difficult it is for him to keep his rage in check. He wonders if the monster is vibrating with pent-up rage.  
  
“Listen,” he says quickly, if only the squash that depressing look from the monster’s face, “I know who sent them, but please trust me when I say that you don’t want to know who it is until we’re done with this job. He’s been sending me dirty texts since we got here. He’s trying to piss me off, not you.”  
  
Shizuo is confused then, and Izaya thinks, well, so is he. Why is he telling the brute such personal information? Sure, it will make living together easier, but why does he care if Shizu-chan feels comfortable here or not? He knows the idiot won’t try to hurt him when so much is riding on their success, it’s the same blanket of security that Koizumi is hiding under, so if he wants to let the protozoan think he’s harassing him, then he should.  
  
There’s no reason for him to be confiding in Shizu-chan like this.  
  
“What did he say to you?” Shizu-chan asks, a little too eager, somehow seeming even angrier than he was earlier, “This pervert, what did he send you?”  
  
Izaya raises a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. He wishes he would have changed before leaving his room. Shizu-chan is wearing a gray t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Izaya feels a little too feminine wearing a matching set. He feels like a woman on her honeymoon maybe, wearing something cute for her new husband.  
  
“Ah-well,” he’s not sure what to say, “Why does it matter?”  
  
Shizuo huffs at that, hand on the door frame of the bathroom, stepping over the threshold onto broken glass, thorny roses, and a grotesque mixture of ashy milk and water as though he doesn’t even notice.  
  
“I hate perverts,” he says as though it’s that simple, “I want to bash his face in.”  
  
Izaya sighs at that like a frustrated mother of an unruly child. Part of him is too embarrassed to even consider showing the messages to Shizu-chan, but another part of him thinks, well, it will save him the effort of weaving an intricate web to ruin the man’s life if he can just send the tornado of a blond his way. And if Shizu-chan gets killed by his bodyguards in the process, that’s all the better.  
  
He fetches his phone from the floor of his room. The screen is cracked, but it works. Koizumi has sent him only two more messages, probably discovering that he was being ignored after hours of no replies.  
  
_‘That cute little work shirt looks nice on you, by the way. Can we do a roleplay where you take my order again?’_  
  
_‘Will you follow all of my orders? If I ask you to bend over, to get on your knees and suck, will you swallow every drop of the cream?’_  
  
His _‘ugh’_ is loud enough that Shizu-chan raises a brow as he hands over the phone like it’s a dirty rag, like he can barely stand to touch it.  
  
Shizuo stares at the screen for a long time. His brow is so tight that Izaya worries a vein might pop out. His shoulders begin to shake, jaw clenched. Just as he seems to get to the end of the long chain of texts Izaya has neglected to delete, he squeezes the phone so tightly in his hands that he crushes it. Izaya gasps.  
  
“Shizu-chan,” he cries, grabbing the shards from the brute’s fist, “That’s my phone! What’s wrong with you?!”  
  
The blond doesn’t say anything. He starts counting under his breath again, stomping over to the couch and throwing himself down. His hair is in his eyes, so Izaya can’t be too sure what he’s feeling, but it seems like it would do him some good to punch something.  
  
_‘You and I both,’_ the informant thinks, mourning the loss of his favorite phone. It’s completely destroyed. There’s no saving it.  
  
“Why does that freak think there’s something going on between us?” Shizuo asks once he reaches zero, “does he think he’s funny or something?”  
  
Izaya decides at that moment that he probably should have just stayed in his room. This entire day is another big disaster, even worse than yesterday, and he should have just called in sick and stayed in bed.  
  
“I don’t know what he’s thinking,” he lies, probably not convincing in the least, “He’s trying to blackmail me somehow, I assume. He thinks he knows something about us that we’re keeping a secret.”  
  
Shizuo twitches at that, tensing up again.  
  
It’s already getting later, and Izaya decides that he’s done dealing with this already. He steps carefully around broken glass, gets ready in the bathroom, and spends a little longer in his room getting dressed than he needs to. He picks a spare phone that has less unread texts than the others.  
Of course someone would have given Koizumi all of his phone numbers. He thinks of Shiki then, blood boiling.  
  
By the time he leaves his room, Shizuo is already ready, staring down at the mess he’s made on the floor. He’s wearing a light jacket over his uniform shirt, a heather gray. Someone really thought the protozoan would look good in that shade, but Izaya can’t help but think that Shizu-chan would have a hard time looking bad in anything. He’s handsome in an obvious way, like someone who was crafted for the sole purpose of being worshiped by as many fans as possible. Izaya wonders how different their lives would have been if the brute had never discovered his nasty temper and inhuman strength. Shizu-chan would have been so popular, he’s sure, and he would have jumped at the chance to manipulate him.  
  
He would have been a boring human anyway, so quick to see right through Izaya’s games.  
  
“Are you ready, Shizu-chan?” he asks slowly.  
  
The look in Shizuo’s eyes as he turns his head is startling.  
  
There’s a lot of sadness there, no matter how quickly the blond tries to mask it. He’s been staring at this mess and getting worked up, Izaya thinks, noting how heavy with emotion those deep browns appear to be, like if Shizuo wasn’t careful, everything would come pouring out and drown him.  
Izaya doesn’t like him like this at all. If he’s going to allow himself to fall in love with a monster, then he needs to be a monster.

 

* * *

  
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, honestly. Shizuo is asked to clean out the delivery van. He puts a new coat of paint on the sign out front, moves the desk in the waiting room and vacuums underneath. During his break, he’s smoking a cigarette on the back of the van, staring up into the deep blue sky. His stomach growls, but he doesn’t think he’ll have enough time to go out and order something, even if Tomoko-san would probably let him.  
  
Just when he’s burned his way down to the filter, Izaya saunters through the backdoor, two to-go boxes in hand as he wanders over and plops down right next to him.  
  
“I have news,” the informant says, handing him one of the boxes, along with a fork and a bottle of water, “they’re moving in some of the buffet tables early. I volunteered to oversee it, and requested that I bring you with me so we could get everything positioned in the most convenient way.”  
  
He’s a little suspicious at first, but while Izaya’s box contains just steamed vegetables, he opens his to reveal a sizable piece of cake. There are blueberries on top, and the icing is almost as thick as the cake itself. Screw it, he decides, digging in with fervor. This cake is exactly his type, poison be damned.  
  
Izaya is quiet, staring at him with a weird expression. Thoughtful, Shizuo thinks, or maybe even a little hungry, like the flight attendant that stared at him at the airport earlier in the week. Or like Tomoko-san and the office girls, and a few of the kitchen workers. He wonders if he’s the only one who eats enough anymore.  
  
“It’s not until tomorrow, of course,” he adds, mouth full of vegetables, “but I thought I’d tell you now so you don’t overreact when Tomoko-chan tells you. Although, I hope you’re gotten that out of your system for now.”  
  
He can feel blood rushing to his face. Of course Izaya won’t let him live down wrecking the hotel room. He’s not sure how they’ll explain everything to Koizumi when he sees the bill for repairs.  
  
_‘Some pervert has been harassing Izaya, so I freaked out and broke the TV.’_  
  
Sure, that will go over great, especially when someone decides to ask why it matters if someone is harassing the little headache. He’ll probably break a few more things just trying to figure it out for himself.  
He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what Tomoko-san told him, about the way Izaya looks at him, and while he would have thought he’d be disgusted and enraged, on the contrary, he’s feeling… elated? Frazzled, maybe, but there’s an odd lightness in his chest at the thought of it, and every time he sees the flea, he tries to sneak a little glimpse of the other man checking him out. It’s maddening, of course, because he doesn’t understand why he cares so much. Maybe this would be a good time for an intervention.  
  
He’s obviously become so homesick and lonely that he’ll accept the attention of anyone, even if it’s just a dirty trick that will probably hurt him in the end.  
  
That being said, the way Izaya’s stalker had talked about the two of them together gave him more than a few ideas, the main, more annoying one being that maybe everyone is right and Izaya does have a thing for him.  
  
It’s impossibly stupid, but more insane things have been true. He can’t imagine what he would do if it turned out to be real. Probably nothing, he muses. Maybe he’d throw his punches a little bit lighter. Maybe he’d pretend he didn’t see the louse sometimes when they crossed paths in Ikebukuro.  
  
No one has ever had a crush on him before. No one has ever seen him as human enough to love, and the thought of it, well…  
  
He doesn’t want to mess it up, even if it’s the dirty liar sitting right next to him, and even if it is just a big joke and the louse will end up laughing in his face.  
  
Izaya finishes his food, setting his to-go box next to him and leaning back against both arms. He takes a deep breath, nose a little pink in the early spring chill, and Shizuo has trouble pulling his eyes away before it becomes weird. He stretches his legs, popping his back a little with a pleased smile hinting at the corners of his lips. He looks like a cat spreading out languidly in the sun.  
  
Shizuo finishes off his cake. It’s so sweet that he feels a little jittery. He sets down his box on top of Izaya’s, doing an awkward little reach over the informant’s lap. He doesn’t seem to notice, and Shizuo doesn’t care. His break is almost over, so he lights another cigarette, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket as it slides too far up his arm.  
  
Tomoko-san finds them like that, just sitting together and enjoying the sun. She’s a little flustered when she greets them, he notes, and he’s not really sure why. She told him that she wanted them to get along, and they’re getting along, but she’s still acting strange about it.  
  
He thinks it’s probably a good thing that he’s not dating anyone. He can’t seem to understand other people.  
  
“Oh, Maki-kun, here you are,” she says sweetly, and Izaya waves to her as he sits straight, “there’s someone on the phone for you.”  
  
The flea sobers immediately upon hearing that, struggling to stay chipper as he thanks her and wanders inside. Tomoko-san stares at him in silence. She’s nervous, he can tell. He can smell fear on other people without even trying.  
  
“D-did he say anything to you?” she asks eventually, wringing her hands, cheeks rosy.  
  
He shrugs, “Like what? He just brought cake.”  
  
She’s acting like she has bad news and he wonders if he’s getting fired after all.  
  
“Chiyo-san told me that he said something strange to her,” she says, flinching at his raised brow, “The person who that old man was ordering the cake for, uh, Shizu-chan. Do you remember?”  
  
He grumbles a bit, but he tells her, yeah, he remembers.  
  
“Well, as they were leaving the estate yesterday, Chiyo-san was asking him if he was seeing anyone, and he started acting very off. She says he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and told her, _‘I’m in love with Shizu-chan’_.”  
  
She doesn’t seem to think anything of it when he chokes, coughing desperately as though he just can’t seem to get enough air. It’s all he can do not to break anything. His ears are burning, stomach doing so many flips that he thinks the cake might end up all over the concrete below.  
  
“So I guess I was wrong,” Tomoko-san notes innocently, tapping her cheek with her index finger, “I really thought he was gay, but I guess he’s in love with this Shizu-chan woman, whoever she may be.”  
  
He’s dying. He really, truly thinks he might be dying. There’s not enough oxygen in the universe to fill his lungs. There’s no temperature cold enough to cool his burning skin.

 

* * *

  
“Hello, this is Maki-kun! How may I help you,” He greets, holding the phone to his ear with dread.  
  
_“Iza-chan, it’s so wonderful to hear your cute voice. I’ve been thinking about you.”_  
  
He groans internally, so desperate to slam the phone on the receiver, so eager for this nightmare to end.  
  
“No, I’m sorry,” he chimes in sweetly, fist tight around the phone, “We don’t sell anything like that here.”  
  
The older man chuckles, a little too husky for Izaya’s liking. He takes a deep breath, tries to relax his shoulders.  
  
“By the way, Shizu-chan wasn’t happy about the flowers. Not at all.”  
  
Koizumi doesn’t seem fazed in the least. He might even be overjoyed, he notes. He thinks he can protect himself from a monster like Shizu-chan with lots of men with guns, but Shizu-chan isn’t afraid to die. He isn’t afraid to hurt. He’s a machine built to kill and if he’s triggered, he won’t stop until he destroys everything.  
  
_“Unfortunately, we need to talk business,”_ Koizumi tells him, sounding genuinely upset, _“I know the two of you are casing the place tomorrow. Please keep your dog on a tight leash.”_  
  
He’s a little annoyed that Koizumi thinks anyone but Izaya himself is allowed to call Shizu-chan a dog, but he tries not to think about it. He knows he can trust the blond to keep his cool. He’s done extraordinarily well so far, but he has to realize that not everyone has seen Shizu-chan in this new light—as someone who works hard to better themselves, as someone hiding a gentle heart.  
  
Ugh, what a gross thought.  
  
“I promise that things will go as smoothly as possible.”  
  
Koizumi laughs then, the line crackling. Izaya finds that he hates the sound of it. He hates a smug human when he can’t play with them.  
  
_“If not,”_ Koizumi sighs, voice like gravel in Izaya’s ears, _“I might have to punish you.”_  
  
And the line dies.  
  
He’s not disappointed at all, although he really dislikes not getting to have the last word.  
  
“Maki-kun,” Tomoko-chan calls behind him, stumbling in so red-faced that he wonders if she’s just confessed her love for Shizu-chan, “We’re having Hayashi-kun move the desks around in the office. Would you like to come pick a place?”  
  
He forgets to mask his smirk. Tomoko-chan seems taken aback.  
  
“Of course,” he purrs, “I’ll be right in.”

* * *

  
Shizuo is about to explode. After everything, this is going to be the end of him. Not the weird bouquet of flowers, not the secret love confessions, not even the disgusting pervert who has been harassing the flea.  
  
No, moving desks, that will be the end of him.  
  
“It’s really stuck, Hayashi-kun,” Izaya calls somewhere from above him, muffled through the wood, “be careful though! Don’t tear the carpet!”  
  
He’s stuffed under the louse’s heavy, wooden desk, trying to untangle an unruly piece of carpet from the leg before he can move it. Tomoko-san reassures them that tearing it is not a big deal from somewhere across the room, but Chiyo-san and the other girls are quick to argue.  
  
“Tomoko-san is just now getting her big start,” Chiyo quips, “Don’t make her pay for new carpet already just because a piece gets snagged!”  
  
Shizuo growls, ears hot. His ass is jutting out from under the desk, high in the air. He can barely even see anything under here and the damn piece of carpet refuses to untangle without breaking.  
  
“Do you need me to come under there?” Izaya asks, resting a hand on his lower back that causes him to hit his head on the wood with a loud _‘thump’_ , “Here, I’m coming.”  
  
If he thought it was too tight before, it’s a million times worse when the louse squeezes in. He shivers a little, feeling too close for comfort, as the flea pushes his hands out of the way and starts working the carpet from the wood.  
  
“Your fat monster hands aren’t good at things like this,” he whispers, and while Shizuo can’t see his face, he’s sure there’s a sickening grin stretched along his lips, “Shizu-chan needs to be a little gentler.”  
  
It comes loose quickly, and Shizuo is more ashamed than angry.  
  
They’re out only a moment later, Izaya gloating silently as the girls cheer for him, and Shizuo almost wishes he would have just ripped it off.  
  
They rest of the day is uneventful. They talk while Shizuo fixes things, organizes shelves, and lifts furniture. Izaya helps him hook up the computers after he moves them. The girls gossip and Kyou-san tells another story.  
  
“Say, Maki-kun,” Chiyo-san says suddenly as the both of them are fiddling with her monitor, “you should tell us about that girl you like--Shizu-chan.”  
  
Izaya almost drops the screen and Shizuo struggles to keep it balanced. They’re both mortified, but Shizuo relishes the look of horror that swims in the back of the louse’s eyes.  
  
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about that,” he laughs, but they all object. He’s trapped like a rat, just like Shizuo likes him.  
  
“Ah, well, there’s not a lot to say about her,” he’s buying time, and Shizuo isn’t the only one who catches on.  
  
“What does she look like,” Kyou-san interjects, “does she have big boobs? Is she a sexy older woman? Is she good in bed?”  
  
Izaya is frozen in place, his mask just barely holding on. He laughs and it sounds hollow and fake. Shizuo feels a little bit of embarrassment for him. There’s something else too, maybe eagerness? Is he really excited to hear what the flea is going to say about him? It he actually happy that Tomoko-san’s words didn’t turn out to be a lie?  
  
“Well, Shizu-chan is really flat-chested,” Izaya says finally, “we’re the same age.”  
  
He looks like he might just murder someone, and when Shizuo reaches forward to plug something in, the informant slaps his hand away.  
  
The girls are muttering something about Maki-kun liking flat girls. They seem to be surprised, and Shizuo thinks that the idea of Izaya liking _anyone_ should be the bigger shock. This situation is so surreal that he wonders how much therapy he’ll need when he returns home. Surely, he’s having some sort of mental break and this is all just a horrible delusion.  
  
“We haven’t sleep together,” he continues, eyes hooded, “she doesn’t feel the same way as I do.”  
  
Everyone is quiet at that. Chiyo-san makes a forlorn noise while Bunko-san clutches her chest. Shizuo eyes Izaya for a long time, watching as he works the cords into the correct slots. He feels for the louse suddenly, no matter how much his instincts tell him to rip the sneaky bastard apart.  
  
He almost says something, but he bites the words. He’s so ambivalent now, his heart pulled in so many different directions that he wouldn’t even be able to tell the flea how he’s feeling if he tried.  
  
“How do you know though?” Bunko-san asks, and it’s a surprise to hear her voice. She’s been so shy until now, “Have you told her how you feel?”  
  
Izaya twitches at that, a dark expression flashing across his face for only a split second. He fixes Shizuo with a stern look, before re-affixing his expression and smiling up at the girl.  
  
“Every time I see her, she says _‘Maki-kun, I hate you so much! I wish you were dead!’_ and tries to throw things at me. She’s very violent.”  
  
Shizuo snorts, and there’s a little bit of color on Izaya’s cheeks. The girls are whispering about _‘tsundere’_ girls and debating if those types exist in real life. They sound a little bit like Kadota’s group, and for a moment, the homesickness catches back up to him again and something deep within his chest clenches at the thought.  
  
“You should at least confess your feelings,” Kyou-san adds, pensive, “Even if she doesn’t feel the same, at least you’ll know. And just think of how crazy a violent girl like that would be in bed!”  
  
Shizuo chokes suddenly, another coughing fit erupting from his throat. The girls laugh, teasing him good-naturedly.  
  
“Hayashi-kun is so conservative,” they sing, “like he’ll only sleep with a girl after she becomes his wife. How romantic.”  
  
He shakes his head, coughs subsiding. Izaya looks to him, face a steel door. He can’t find anything of use behind the louse’s eyes, and he wonders, deep down, if the flea is hurting for him.  
  
_As if,_ he decides.  
  
It’s all just a big joke.  
  
…Right?

 

* * *

  
The hotel is back to normal when they come home in the evening, and Shizuo is more impressed than anything.  
  
“They even replaced the TV,” he gasps, and Izaya laughs at him.  
  
“Of course they did, protozoan,” the louse counters, throwing himself down on the couch and snatching the remote, “Koizumi is paying them a lot of dough for this place. Not to mention that he’s dangerous.”  
  
He winks then, and Shizuo’s stomach flops. He thinks of pinning down the louse and strangling him. He thinks of just pinning the other man down at all. It’s gross, and he immediate regrets it.  
  
“I’m taking a shower.”  
  
Izaya raises a brow, but turns back to the television fairly quickly. He starts flipping through the channels, and Shizuo feels like he’s been dismissed.  
  
He gathers a pair of casual clothes from his bedroom. He feels bad that he’s only been wearing his uniform and pajamas for the last few days, and he realizes that he really needs to wash his work shirts.  
  
After his shower, he’s toweling his hair dry. He’s swearing a button-down shirt, light blue, and a pair of navy pants. Izaya sneaks in a few glances that he catches with little effort, and he wonders how long he’s been ignoring them. Has the flea been pining after him this entire time?  
  
“Where’s the laundry room?” he asks.  
  
Izaya doesn’t reply right away. He’s fixed with a lazy grin, like the louse hasn’t quite heard him. He snaps out of it quickly enough, but it’s such a funny sight, watching the flea realize how weird he’s being—dazed like a love-struck schoolgirl.  
  
“There should be one on the main floor,” he replies, a little too eagerly, “but you could always leave your clothes outside and the maids will wash them.”  
  
He shakes his head, leaving momentarily to fetch his dirty jeans and other work shirt from his room.  
  
“I’m gonna go find it,” he huffs, arms full of clothes, “stay up here if you want.”  
  
In the end, they’re both sitting in the laundry room in silence. It’s later than he thought, almost midnight, and everyone else has checked into their rooms for the night. The timer on the washing machine says _‘45 minutes’_. Then, he muses, it will switch to drying, which will take another forty-five minutes. He wonders how long he’ll be able to ignore the flea before one of them snaps.  
  
“Hey, we should look around,” Izaya points out, pulling himself to his feet, “we might find something interesting.”  
  
Even the lobby is empty, he notes, watching as the doorman smokes a cigarette through the wide glass doors. The lights have been dimmed, and it’s so barren that the only thing he can hear as they walk is the sound of their shoes tapping against the floor. Izaya pushes through a door, slipping like a cat into the long hallway behind it.  
  
He can smell the chlorine all the way from here, and he’s not nearly as surprised as Izaya when they stumble upon a pool that he’s sure is about as big as both of their apartments combined. He’s about to turn back when the louse grasps his wrist, eyes sparkling in the low light as he pulls them both into the room.  
  
The reflection of the pool creates a moving mosaic of light against the ceiling. The water is splashing gently below them, filter humming so gently that it could probably put him to sleep if he focused on it enough. It’s dark, save for the security lights, and he thinks someone might have forgotten to lock the doors. They’re definitely not supposed to be in here alone.  
  
He can only barely see his reflection in the water as he steps near the edge, the shadow of him dark against the swaying surface. He can see the bottom from here, not too far down, and he cranes his neck to eye the opposite end of the room, wondering just how deep it gets.  
  
He’s not ready at all when Izaya pushes him, even though he should have expected it from the start. At least he has the reflexes to reach around and grab ahold of the bastard, dragging him right down with him.  
  
Izaya cries out, he braces himself for the impact, and he stares up at the ceiling as water floods his vision, shadowy and all-consuming. A sudden silence engulfs them as the flea falls down against him. For a split second, they’re lying together, Izaya’s head rested on his chest, holding each other and simply enjoying the way he and the flea’s body seem to fit like the pieces of a puzzle.  
  
Izaya has little bubbles rising out from his lips and nose. He can’t keep his eyes open, and Shizuo can almost see the way his brows knit together in the dark. The louse has him by the front of the shirt. They stare at each other, Shizuo’s heart a frenzy. After what feels like a decade, the louse pulls him forward, pressing their lips together so hard that it almost hurts.  
  
He lets go a second later, floating to the surface of the water and breaking through, gasping for breath. Shizuo stays under a little longer, lungs on fire, watching the flea rise like a mermaid in the night. When he can barely stand it anymore, Izaya grabs him and drags him up, shaking him slightly and laughing in his face.  
  
“You’re a monster, Shizu-chan,” he chides, eyes like coal, hooded and empty black, “but I know your lungs aren’t that strong.”  
  
Shizuo grabs him then, maybe a little rougher than he should, and pins him against the edge of the pool. He glares into those inky eyes, gripping the flea’s shoulders as the other man’s fists tremble against his chest.  
  
“You’re disgusting,” he spits, rage dripping like acid from his words.  
  
And he kisses Izaya, gentler this time, softer than the louse would ever allow if he had a choice.  
  
The kisses become more aggressive. Izaya’s fingers roam under his soaked shirt, over the waist of his pants, and he can feel a hotness in his belly spreading to his groin. He’s hard and so eager, and it takes everything he has not to crush the other man in his palms.  
  
They’re stopped when a light blinds them, a voice shaky and horrified as Shizuo raises a hand to shield his face.  
  
“H-hey,” the voice calls, “Y-you—you’re not supposed to be in here after dark.”  
  
Frozen in place, he feels like a deer in the headlights, can truly reason with the feeling of being vermin in the way of a speeding car, and he isn’t sure if they’ll be fined or kicked out of that hotel for this or what.  
  
“We were just trying to do laundry,” he says— _so dumb, so dumb, so dumb!_  
  
Izaya giggles. His grip in the louse’s arm tightens.  
  
They end up back in the laundry room after all, miserable drowned rats as the final five minutes of the washing cycle tick away. He doesn’t even want to think about what happened back there—can’t, really. He thinks his brain might implode if he even tries.  
  
Izaya is humming lightly, some tune he’s never heard of that probably doesn’t even exist. It’s annoying, but he doesn’t press the issue.  
  
He’s not in the mood for talking.  
  
The flea rises from his spot, pulling his shirt over his head. Shizuo is sure he’s hallucinating, because the other man continues to undress until he’s down to nothing but his underwear. He tosses them into a dryer, fiddling with the handles. Shizuo’s not stupid enough to think that it won’t ruin his clothes, but they’re not really even his clothes anyway, so maybe the flea just wants to give him a headache. That’s probably it.  
  
He refuses to comment, keeps his eyes trained on the timer, counts down backwards in his head. Izaya continues to hum, drumming his fingers against the bench that they’re sitting on. The timer goes off, finally, and he watches as the clothes begin to tumble around. He didn’t even know washer-dryer combos were a real thing and he wonders if Izaya did. Surely, he thinks, the stupid louse is loaded.  
  
He doesn’t even move when he feels a hand settle on top of his own, a little bit colder, and so much softer. He wants to scoff and rub the stink of it off, but he thinks that if he ignores it, it might go away faster.  
  
The humming has stopped, at least for now. Izaya leans against him, not as heavy as he would have expected, and his heart jumps into his throat.  
  
_‘Just ignore him,’_ he thinks, _‘Don’t let him get to you.’_  
  
It doesn’t feel nice. He’s not aroused by the touch of a half-naked flea. He doesn’t enjoy the informant’s warmth. His pants aren’t becoming even more uncomfortably tight.  
  
He’s not falling for Orihara Izaya.  
  
It’s not possible, and nothing that happens here tonight will change his mind.

 

* * *

  
The sun is too bright in his eyes. His back is aching, skin dry and flaky, reeking of chlorine. Shizu-chan is tangled up with him on the couch, hair a little green and clothes wrinkled and stiff. The beast looks like he’s taken a ride in a blender, he’s such a mess. Izaya wonders if he’ll even notice the grassy tint of his hair when he wakes up.  
  
They didn’t get back to their room until early in the morning, when the staff began turning on the lights in the lobby. His clothes weren’t even completely dry when he’d been forced to dig them out of the dryer and put them back on, lest some random employee stumble in on the two of them.  
  
Shizu-chan had fallen asleep sitting up, and Izaya barely even felt bad for shaking him awake. The beast could sleep just about anywhere, he’d realized, disgusted as his gut clenched at the sight of the moron’s serene, sleeping face.  
  
They’d been almost drunk with exhaustion as they’d waited for the elevator to reach their floor. Shizu-chan had dozed against the wall, his clothes balled up in his arms, face pink and eyes heavy with the need for sleep. He’d reminded Izaya of a little kid, and the idea of Shizu-chan ever being so innocent almost made him laugh.  
  
He’s not really sure how they ended up on the couch together though.  
  
Careful not to wake the brute as he pulls away, he stuffs the memories of their encounters the night before into the back of his mind. The urge to murder the monster hasn’t diminished. He would still like nothing more than to drain every drop of blood from the other man’s veins.  
  
Shizu-chan groans, reaching blindly for something in his sleep, brow furrowed.  
  
“Cold,” he huffs, groping around in the spot Izaya has left empty.  
  
_Disgusting._  
  
The hour he spends in the bath doesn’t make him feel any cleaner.  
  
Shizu-chan awakens later, and to Izaya’s surprise, he notices his new hair color almost immediately. He says nothing about it, of course, but he’s making a lot of noise in the bathroom, grumbling and cussing and tugging at the greenish locks like he can pull the stain out.  
  
“You should contact your butler,” Izaya calls, something ugly writhing within his ribcage, “I’m sure he would be overjoyed to come over and run is fingers through your hair.”  
  
Shizuo throws a glare over his shoulder, muttering something about smelly jackasses, but doesn’t offer the reaction he was hoping for.  
  
They don’t have to be at work for another two hours. He sighs, mourning the loss of his fun at Shizu-chan’s expense. He’s on his feet, trekking into the bathroom, reaching over the protozoan into a cabinet behind the mirror. Shizu-chan’s butler has thought of everything, stocking enough expensive hair dye to last the idiot a year.  
  
“As much as I would love to watch you parade around looking like a piece of broccoli,” he breathes, pressing a hand against the monster’s chest and pushing him toward the toilet, “it’s important that we look our best today, so sit. I’ll make sure you don’t mess this up.”

 

* * *

 

  
No one has dyed his hair for him in years, not since he and Kasuka were still in school and his younger brother would wander in on him huffing up a storm in their too-small bathroom, and he doesn’t think twice about groaning at the feeling of lithe fingers working the tingly chemicals through his roots.  
  
He knows the louse is trying to scratch too hard and pull his hair, but it feels good anyway. Izaya probably doesn’t understand the sensation of peroxide tickling his scalp, that sharp itching that lingers for hours after he’s washed his hair with the tiny packet of viscous conditioner that’s always included in the box, but every time, it’s almost enough for him to let his roots grow out and give up on dying it ever again.  
  
Tom-san told him once that he was surprised by how willing Shizuo was to put up with the annoying sensation, but he’d replied, tapping the top of his cigarette box against his palm, _“Things like that don’t really piss me off. People piss me off.”_  
  
“Okay, now let it set, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, nose scrunched up in disgust, peeling the gloves from his hands and throwing them in the trash.  
  
Shizuo brings a cigarette to his lips, content with just the feeling of it in his mouth. Izaya eyes him like he thinks he might light it, and he decides that the flea will probably harass him about making his clothes reek of the smoke.  
  
Because of this, he pulls himself to his feet, mindful of the towel around his shoulders and the dye wetting his hair as he makes his way out to the balcony. Izaya reminds him that they don’t have a lot of time. He nods, but doesn’t reply.  
  
The fresh air is a cool relief against his cheeks, chilling the itchy dampness on his scalp. He lights his cigarette finally, watching as the small dots of cars travel about far below. Today is a big day, he muses. It hasn’t even been a week of their near-month long stay, and he’s already going to find himself wandering into the estate of the man they’ve taken this trip just to extort.  
  
He’s not a good person though, he reminds himself, so he shouldn’t feel bad about beating him within an inch of his life.

 

* * *

  
When they make it to work, Izaya has ignored fifteen texts.  
  
Some of them might be important, but he isn’t quite ready to dig through the nearly pornographic ramblings of a surely senile old fool (he must be, if he thinks Izaya won’t unleash Shizuo on him the second that they don’t need him anymore) for a text or two of instructions.  
  
They’re supposed to leave within an hour of their arrival and stay gone for most of the day. Tomoko-chan has put together a heavy bundle of supplies—streamers, table cloths, potholders—for them to bring along, and Shizu-chan reaches for them before anyone even asks.  
  
The protozoan’s hair is a shade lighter than it ever has been, more white-blond than yellow, and it frames his face in a way that makes him look almost angelic. The office girls notice immediately, fawning over him like a puppy or a young child, and Izaya wonders where the urge to slice their greedy fingers off comes from as they reach for the brute’s head.  
  
“Curly hair is so dreamy,” Chiyo sighs, “I wish my fiancé had hair like yours. God really did mankind a favor when he crafted you, Hayashi-kun. Do you know that?”  
  
Shizu-chan chokes at that, backing away like a scared animal. Which he is, Izaya decides.  
  
He can barely stop himself from saying something rude to her, and it’s unsettling how hard of a time he’s having not dragging the blond away. He wants to tell himself that he just doesn’t want anyone fawning over a monster, that tricking these poor girls into falling for him is a vicious attack on humanity, but it’s a lie and he knows it. He realizes that he can’t deny how good it felt to dye Shizu-chan’s hair this morning, how heavenly it was waking up wrapped in those strong arms.  
  
“Maki-kun,” Tomoko-chan says, patting him gently on the shoulder, “Are you okay? Your face is getting really red. Do you need some air?”  
  
Shizu-chan looks at him like he knows something and it’s infuriating.  
  
He definitely hates the monster. He is absolutely going to kill it.  
  
When they finally start their trip to the estate, Shizu-chan’s arms so full that he can barely see where he’s going, Izaya has decided that he’s going to drown him. He’ll convince him to return to the pool tonight, and he’ll hold the brute’s head under the water until he’s nothing but a dead weight floating just below the surface.  
  
It will be symbolic, he reasons, of the birth and death of whatever this disaster is going on between them. He’ll kill the beast where he first kissed him, where Shizu-chan kissed him too.  
  
“If you don’t stop thinking about stupid shit, you’re going to be the one who ruins this job.”  
  
Shizu-chan is fixing him with a stare that seems to burn into the deepest shadows of his soul. He feels a little naked being looked at in such a way, like all this time, the brute has been reading even the most depraved of these dirty little thoughts that have plagued his mind.  
  
He doesn’t respond. They’re standing at the bus stop, waiting as the cars pass by. Shizu-chan’s monstrous strength has allowed him to continue holding all of their supplies without growing tired. It’s a sunny day, but still cold. A group of women passes by, each turning their heads to eye him and the blond, whispering amongst themselves.  
  
The bus arrives soon after. Shizu-chan doesn’t try to talk to him again.  
  
He sneaks a few looks at the monster, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. It’s sitting like a person, like it fits in with everyone else, head rested against the back of the seat, staring tiredly up at the ceiling.  
  
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He digs his phone out of his pocket, wondering if he’s ready of the assault he’s likely to undergo.  
  
_‘I bet you’re staring at him now, aren’t you?’_  
  
_‘Do you think he might be staring at you too, when you’re not paying attention?’_  
  
_‘Do you think he thinks about your body how you do his? Do you think he dreams of touching you in those awful, dirty ways that you fantasize about in the middle of the night?’_  
  
_‘You’re falling for him. Do you think he’s falling for you too?’_  
  
_‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, so listen up.’_  
  
_‘He’s not.’_  
  
It bothers him more than it should, and he wonders if Shizu-chan notices the way he just flinched. It doesn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things, of course. A relationship between the two of them would never work. Shizu-chan would never be able to stop being a monster, he would never be able to stop meddling in the lives of others. They would both continue to be lonely souls with ugly hearts: a beast who destroys everything he loves and a human who loves only to watch the destruction. They would kill each other in the end. Shizu-chan could crush him with a simple touch, and he would rot the blond from the inside out.  
  
He chances a glance at Shizu-chan again and is surprised to find that he’s dozed off. He’s truly useless, napping when Izaya is in crisis. How can he not panic after everything that happened last night? Did he forget? Is he in denial?  
  
Could it be that he might be falling in love too?  
  
He flips through a few more texts to distract himself.  
  
_‘I could give you what you need. Don’t count this old man out. I could make you squirm in ways that you’d never believe were possible.’_  
  
_‘Do you really think a monster like him would be experienced enough to give you what you yearn for?’_  
  
_‘A man like you needs someone to show him who's boss.’_  
  
He wonders why such a human would become so obsessed with him. He’s not stupid enough to think that Koizumi isn’t trying to manipulate him somehow, but he can’t quite understand how or why. He considers sleeping with him to find out, but the idea is so displeasing that he disregards it immediately.  
  
_‘If I told you that loved him, would you leave me alone? If I humiliated myself for your pleasure, would you grow bored of me and move on to someone else?’_  
  
He’s not even done reading all of the messages when he sends it. It sounds a little desperate, and he’s sure Koizumi will ignore the underlying poison in his words. If the other man wants to humiliate him, that’s fine. He’ll love him as a human all the same. Maybe even more, he muses, as Shizu-chan wraps those rough fingers around his throat, as the monsters squeezes the very last breath he’ll ever breathe from his lungs.  
  
His phone beeps.  
  
_‘I already know that you’re in love with him. You don’t need to say it.’_  
  
Within seconds, there’s another.  
  
_‘If you send me a picture, I’ll leave you alone.’_  
  
He leans back in his seat, shoulder pressed against Shizu-chan’s. The blond doesn’t stir, just breathes a little deeper.  
  
He holds his phone back, making a peace sign with his fingers, tongue out, as he squeezes Shizuo into the shot. It clicks, and he sends it without looking at it for too long. Shizu-chan’s sleeping face is making his chest ache. His knife feels heavy in his pocket. He wants nothing more than to bleed the brute to death, to slice him up before he can even fully awaken, and it takes everything he has not to admit to himself that he would so much rather find himself kissing the blond instead.  
  
_‘You know that’s not what I meant.’_  
  
He turns his phone on silent. The bus stops for them, finally, and he shoves Shizu-chan as hard as he can to wake him.  
  
It’s going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter of the chapters I've posted so far! I love, love, love the idea of sneaking into pools in the middle of the night (I did it to impress a girl I fell for the summer after high school, and I've been hooked every since) AND the idea of Shizuo getting his hair dyed by Izaya. 
> 
> Very slowly, these two morons are falling in love with each other. Izaya thinks that if he makes the whole thing seem like a joke, Shizuo won't act on it, but Shizuo doesn't really listen to anyone else when his instincts are telling him to do something! 
> 
> There are a lot of people that I would like to thank for helping this story move along so quickly, but basically, if you look at the comments and kudos for this story so far, it's all of you! Since posting this, I've been reminded of how wonderful sharing your writing can feel. I only hope I've shared a little bit of that joy with everyone who has read this! (Very cheesy. I'm not too great with words.)
> 
> I'll see you guys again next week!


	4. Voyeuristic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is definitely something toxic in the air.

Shizuo wonders if houses this big are even used for living in, or if rich people are just liars who return to their apartments each night. He can’t even fathom why a single person would need so much room. The hotel has felt too open and wide lately compared to his closet of an apartment, and a home this humongous is ridiculous.  
  
He swallows his anger, setting down the bundle of supplies just a little harder than he probably needs to.  
  
Izaya is speaking with a man in a suit who isn’t Fukayama, probably his assistant, and he’s using his hands to talk in a way that even distracts Shizuo a little bit. The louse is frustratingly talented at deceiving people, and he isn’t really sure if last night was a trick or not. He doesn’t know he if wants to think about it, but as opposed to how horrified he thought he might feel after making out with the flea, he’s surprisingly okay. Izaya helped him dye his hair, Tomoko-san gave them breakfast before they left, and he was even able to sneak in a short nap on the ride over, which wasn’t interrupted at all by any annoying informants.  
  
He starts unpacking their things, watching Izaya’s movements out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Tom-san sent him a text this morning asking if he’s been doing okay. He wasn’t sure what to say about it, feeling regretful that he hadn’t contacted his friend the entire time he’s been here.  
  
_‘Fine.’_ He’d replied simply, and Tom-san hadn’t made any effort to text him after that.  
  
He’d sent Celty a text later, feeling a little lonely as he thought about Tom-san and Vorona wandering the city without him.  
  
_‘How did your cookies turn out?’_  
  
She’d responded almost immediately, _‘Let’s not talk about that. How is your trip? Are you and your partner getting along?’_  
  
_‘You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.’_ He’d sent, and while she prodded him to elaborate, he really wasn’t sure if he was ready to explain everything just yet.  
  
For the next few hours, he helps Fukayama’s staff move tables around and hang decorations. He can’t quite understand why they’re getting ready two weeks early, but the opportunity allows him to become acquainted with the building. He begins to study exits, taking note of all of the places where a person could slip away unseen.  
  
Someone asks him to grab another table from outside. They tell him that it’s on the patio, and he stumbles through a throng of thick flora in search of it. He can hear a stream running nearby, birds chirping as the sun blinds him. There are stepping stones leading him through the grass, but his feet are too big to fit on them completely. There are flowers growing so tall that they reach his waist, soft sand decorated neatly in a Zen garden some ways away.  
  
He stops for a moment to breathe in the air, to smell the plant-life enveloping him in a cocoon of serenity. He thinks, if he ever becomes rich by some bizarre miracle, this is the first thing he’ll buy: a patio so large that it feels like he’s wandered out into a miniature forest.  
  
The feeling of a hand touching his back nearly sheds his soul from his earthly body. It takes everything he has not to punch whoever has grabbed him into the next life.  
  
He turns swiftly, knocking the hand away, primal instincts burning with the need to fight as he finds himself face to face with a familiar pale and handsome gentleman. He notes the scar running from jawline and disappearing beneath the collar of the man’s shirt, a grin so cocky that his need to kill is only raised.  
  
But the wind quickly vacates his sails, because when Izaya told him to lay low, this is the exact opposite of what he meant.  
  
“You work for Tachibana Tomoko, correct?” Fukayama asks, and Shizuo chokes for a moment before he can nod, “You’re a good-looking guy.”  
  
He hands Shizuo a business card, thick paper, shiny writing.  
  
“A handsome guy who doesn’t mind heavy lifting,” he winks then, that sly smile so familiar to Shizuo that it takes everything he has not to pull a stepping-stone from the ground and lodge it into the man’s skull, “if you ever get bored of running errands for a pitiful catering company, give me a call.”  
  
There’s a sinister edge to his words, like he thinks he’s a predator and Shizuo is a sheep grazing in the grass. He’s so wrong that it’s almost funny. This man, so lithe and pale and fragile, with bones that would crack like eggshells between Shizuo’s fingers, has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.  
  
“Sure,” Shizuo barely makes any noise at all, “I’ll let you know.”  
  
And as quickly as he appeared, he’s leaving.  
  
Shizuo almost forgets to grab the table, he’s so full of rage.

 

* * *

 

  
At the end of the day, Izaya is more exhausted than he’s been since they got here. Shizu-chan doesn’t have a lot to say on the ride home, so they sit in silence. They haven’t eaten since breakfast, and his stomach growls embarrassingly loud as they’re making their way into the hotel.  
  
Koizumi has been blowing up his phone all day, only getting more perverse as time drags on. He thinks soon he might just find a photo online of a guy with a body like his and send it. He doesn’t care if the old coot thinks it’s him or not.  
  
“Hey, Shizu-chan, what about dinner?”  
  
The blond stops walking just as the doorman bows to them. There’s a second in which each of them stand around awkwardly, all eyes trained on the blond.  
  
“What about it?” he replies, not even sparing Izaya a glance, shoulders stiff.  
  
He’s almost flustered by it, the cold way in which Shizu-chan pretends that he doesn’t understand that he’s _trying to be nice_ and offer up his time. Like they haven’t kissed each other more than once and slept tangled together on the couch.  
  
“We’re off tomorrow, remember? It’s the weekend. We should get something to eat instead of staying cooped up inside.”  
  
He doesn’t admit to himself that he wants to spend time with the other man, but the idea of having dinner and watching these foreign humans is exciting enough on its own. If he were in Ikebukuro, he might be sitting in a café by the window, gazing out as the world carries on around him.  
  
Shizuo turns to glare at him and he almost flinches. He feels so stupid, but Shizu-chan surely doesn’t know. The brute can’t comprehend how hard he’s been thinking about their interactions all day, so much so that he almost forgot to watch security move through the building and memorize the way they worked.  
  
“Why do you think I’d want to eat with you?” he spits, and even the doorman looks like he feels sorry for Izaya, “Go by yourself.”  
  
He studies the monster’s face before forcing a cool and casual shrug. He despises the man for making it so difficult for him to be cruel, to distance himself and cut off anything he might be feeling.  
  
He stopped allowing himself to be hurt by the thoughtless words of his beloved humans so many years ago, and he never knew how much Shizu-chan could make those lonely scars tingle.  
  
“Suit yourself,” he chirps, turning on his heel and heading in whichever direction he thinks he might be able to flee through the quickest, “Go sit by yourself in an empty hotel room and watch those stupid movies again.”  
  
He doesn’t feel anything as he walks away, at least that’s what he tells himself. Shinra told him once that he does the opposite of what he wants. He wants to be loved by other people and so he hurts them. He wants to be loved by Shizu-chan and so he allows himself to be pushed away.  
  
He’s maybe two buildings away when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns, and Shizu-chan is looking down at him, lips pursed, looking like he might have kicked someone’s puppy.  
  
“Hey,” he says meekly, a Shizuo that Izaya has never experienced first-hand, but has only heard the rumors of, “I—well. I did something really stupid today, okay? That bastard Fukayama walked right up to me and I just let him leave. I should have kicked the shit out of him so we could go home. “  
  
He’s sitting very still, like he’s waiting to be chided, like he thinks Izaya will rap him on the knuckles with a ruler. Maybe he would, if they were both back in Ikebukuro and the foreign air of this city hadn’t caused both of them to go a little crazy.  
  
As it is, he doesn’t know what he wants to say at all. On one hand, he has so many perfectly malleable humans back home who he’s actually allowed to mess with, but on another, Koizumi made it very clear that the extortion needs to take place on the night of Fukayama's big event.  
  
“That’s fine, Shizu-chan,” he replies, stone-faced, “Will you let me go to dinner now?”  
  
Shizuo hasn’t let go of his shoulder yet. They’re connected by it like a copper wire, sizzling electricity between the two of them.  
  
“I’m hungry,” says the brute, as through that settles it and Izaya is just obligated to bring him along after he made the both of them look like assholes.  
  
Izaya isn’t so easy to work up, his ears don’t redden like the blond’s, he doesn’t lower his head in shame, but he thinks to himself, as Shizu-chan finally lets him go:  
  
_‘I hate your guts. Die already.’_

* * *

  
They’re at a late-night diner. Izaya wanted to go to a bar, but that’s so stupid. The louse doesn’t even drink! Why would he want to go to a bar? Why would Shizuo _let_ him go to a bar?  
  
He notes the way that the informant is watching the other patrons. He reminds Shizuo of a kid with an ant collection, and the feeling that this thought gives him is so unsettling that he disregards it immediately.  
  
Shinra has been bugging him for most of his life about Izaya— _“Please be friends! You’ll be missing out on a wonderful relationship if you decide to hate him!”_  
  
For the life of him, he can’t recall a single person who has ever benefited from a relationship with the louse, but Shinra has stuck around for so long, so maybe he knows something that no one else does.  
  
It makes him think though, what would their relationship be now if they would have decided to get along? Would they be sitting across from each other like this, Izaya’s eyes trained on him, talking about something sneaky that he’s been up to and Shizuo just wouldn’t care? Would he be able to ignore the slimy feeling that the informant gave him from the very beginning?  
  
Surely not. It wouldn’t have worked in any universe.  
  
Izaya has barely picked at his food, but Shizuo is almost done. The louse is just too distracted. He keeps eyeing a young couple who appear to be arguing about something. He’s smiling sweetly, fingers laced under his chin. The boyfriend is whispering so aggressively that it sounds like he’s hissing at the girl. She’s teary-eyed, voice a lull of high and low sobs muffled through trembling palms. She reaches for his hand, mascara a shiny smudge below her eyes, and the boy smacks her away.  
  
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Shizuo grunts, rising so quickly from the table that their glasses rattle. He’s shaking with rage. He needs to go calm himself down.  
  
Izaya nods like he’s barely listening, but Shizuo can feel those eyes following him all the way to the bathroom.  
  
The door groans as he shoves it open. It’s empty save for a drunk leaning against the urinal, rambling to himself about something that Shizuo doesn’t care about at all.  
  
He turns on the sink, splashes water on his face. He counts backward from one hundred, thinks about clouds drifting through clear blue skies, of Tom-san and Vorona looping easily through the busy Ikebukuro traffic, collecting bills and eating cake on their breaks. He thinks of Celty making food for Shinra that causes the young doctor to choke and nearly vomit. He thinks of Akane playing with her friends at school.  
He feels better after naming off everyone he knows, thinking of what they might have done today, thinking of them locking their doors and falling asleep safely in their beds.  
  
There’s music playing softly overheard, an old tune that he’s not familiar with. It’s scratchy through aged speakers. He can’t even make out of a word of what’s being sung.  
  
When he finally leaves the bathroom, Izaya isn’t at their booth. He looks around, mortified, for only a moment, thinking that the louse has left him behind with the bill. He finds that their table has been cleaned, however, and the waitress waves at him as though she thinks he’s leaving.  
  
With a sigh of frustration, he heads out to the street.  
  
He finds the louse soon enough: standing against the side of the building, speaking softly to someone who Shizuo can barely see. He has his arm extended in front of him, palm resting on the brick right beside the other person’s head.  
  
As he draws nearer, slowly, he begins to make out Izaya’s words and the face of the man who was just yelling at his girlfriend inside.  
  
“You think saying ugly things to her will make her feel bad enough to stay with you, right?” the informant purrs, long lashes casting shadows down his face, “but you think she’s sleeping with your friend, right? Why don’t you go through her things and find out? Apologize to her like everything is fine, then when she falls asleep—“  
  
Shizuo grabs the headache by the back of the sweater, lifting him off of the ground and away from the other, truly flabbergasted, man.  
  
Izaya says something rude to him, he’s sure, but he tunes it out. The flea doesn’t even struggle, just hangs there limply like a doll. The pale skin of his stomach glows like porcelain in the dark. He’s so thin, and the hollow of his abdomen looks especially deep as shadows play against jutting bone.  
  
“Listen up, jackass,” Shizuo spits, shaking with suppressed rage and noting the way the stranger flinches—as though his glare alone has burned him, “Don’t yell at your girlfriend if you don’t know what’s going on with her. Don’t take any of this parasite’s advice, got it? If you think she’s cheating on you, ask her. Don’t be a fucking idiot or she’s going to leave you.”  
  
Izaya giggles then, like a teenage girl.  
  
“Dr. Shizu-chan,” he cheers, clapping his hands, “Relationship Extraordinaire.”  
  
He’s dropped moments later, so surprised that he doesn’t even catch himself before he lands right on his ass.  
  
Izaya is complaining like a whiny teen and he almost feels bad for the poor guy who's been forced to witness all of this. The guy looks scared out of his mind, like he thinks he might get murdered, and Shizuo decides that maybe this is good for him. It might teach him some humility.  
  
“If I ever run into you again and you’re still yelling at that girl like that,” he adds, hauling Izaya to his feet and dragging him away, “I’ll fucking kill you, got it?”  
  
The guy only nods, looking like he might have just peed his pants.  
  
Izaya doesn’t stop talking all the way back to the hotel. He’s rambling about humans and how much he loves them, trembling with excitement as he goes on and on. Shizuo thinks the entire thing is just an act, but he doesn’t say so.  
  
_“Izaya just doesn’t understand how to connect with other humans,”_ Shinra had told him once, _“he fumbles with people’s hearts and breaks them, but only because he’s lonelier than anyone he’s ever met.”_  
He never took that comment very seriously because he doesn’t like to think of Shinra as the type who can read people. He doesn’t want to consider that maybe the doctor has used this ability to peer into the caverns of his heart too, and what he might have found.  
  
But right now, Izaya seems almost hysteric as he breathlessly expresses his love. His eyes are so wide, hands waving about in the air as though he’s trying to grab all of his words. It’s a little scary watching him, and when Shizuo stops only a few meters from the hotel, Izaya almost continues in without him.  
  
“Eh, Shizu-chan,” the louse laughs, “not ready to go home yet?”  
  
He reaches out, grabbing the informant by the sleeve of his jacket. Izaya’s mask slips into place naturally, as though he doesn’t even know he’s activated it, as though it’s that normal for him to hide his fear of what exactly Heiwajima Shizuo is capable of doing to him right here in the moonlit streets of a city so far from home.  
  
He’s quiet for the first time in hours, eyes sparkling in the light of the moon and the streetlamps, the neon signs and stars. The smirk on his lips looks lopsided, like he’s not so sure anymore, like maybe he’s made a wrong choice and stayed in place when he should have run.  
  
And Shizuo kisses him then, right on the sidewalk, with only the doorman and a few passing cars as their witness.  
  
Before he knows it, there’s the sharp edge of a knife against his throat. Izaya has pulled away so quickly that the warmth of his lips is only a ghost to Shizuo's senses. His face is a dusted red, sweat beading at his brow as he stands, unflinchingly, with his blade against Shizuo’s skin.  
  
“You think you’re funny, don’t you, Shizu-chan?” he breathes, grin feral as the doorman makes a strangled call toward them, “You think what those idiot women said at work is the truth, don’t you?”  
  
He’s silent, calmer than he has been in decades. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, not quite hurt, or anger, but—  
  
“I was just messing with you, moron.”  
  
It’s pity.  
  
Izaya stumbles back. His eyes are on fire, tiny shoulders crumbling beneath whatever it is that’s been torturing him since they arrived here. Shizuo sees him now as Shinra has for many years: a lonely man with no understanding of how to reach out and touch the lives of those around him without destroying them. He understands, as so many lovely things crumble in his own palms. He thinks of when Shinra told him, _“The two of you are so alike, but you just can’t see it.”_ And he hates the fact that the perverted doctor might have been right.  
  
They’re at a stalemate for a long beat of time. No one is around on the sidewalk, but a small crowd of staff has gathered behind the glass of the hotel’s front door. Shizuo reaches out to take the knife. He thinks if he can settle the louse down, maybe they can talk things out. He’s never been good at talking, but maybe Izaya will listen. Maybe they can figure out this weird electricity that’s been popping between them ever since Izaya kissed him at the bottom of the pool.  
  
But the louse is quicker than lightening, flicking his knife and slicing a gash right across Shizuo’s palm. He laughs like a maniac, falling further back.  
  
“I’m not in love with a monster like you,” he seethes, so shaken that Shizuo can see hints of sadness through the corners of his smile, “don’t even think for a _second_ that I could love someone like you.”  
  
And with that, he’s gone, darting away into the shadows nearby and scampering off so quickly that Shizuo doesn’t even think about trying to follow.  
  
_‘What the Hell was that anyway?’_  
  
Izaya asked him to go to dinner, which people do when they’re interested in dating. Izaya kissed him in the pool and he kissed back. They leaned against each other while doing laundry and spooned on the couch all night. Izaya dyed his hair, he talked about him to people at work. _He stared at his ass!_ The damn louse stared at his ass so many times that people at work were making jokes about it!  
  
Grumbling, he eyes his bloody palm. The louse can be a drama queen all he wants.  
  
He knows where the hotel is when he’s done throwing a fit.

 

* * *

 

How humiliating.  
  
He’s sitting on the roof of a small restaurant near the hotel, flipping through his phone as he allows his skin to cool off. His sweater is wadded up somewhere in the darkness. His heart has yet to stop thundering in his chest. He thinks it might explode if he isn’t careful.  
  
Shizu-chan had reached out and touched him. His skin felt so warm, his eyes had been so full of something that Izaya couldn’t name. His lips were just as soft as they’d been when he’d stolen that very first kiss. He was so gentle that it made Izaya sick, so honest that it made him want to vomit.  
  
He was embarrassed, and so, he’d lashed out.  
  
Who did Shizu-chan think he was, touching him like that? And in public? Anyone could have seen them!  
  
His phone vibrates.  
  
With a sigh, he pulls it from his pocket, groaning as he sees the familiar name of his stalker. He’s surprised, however, to find a photo instead of a text.  
  
When it loads, he almost drops his phone, almost throws it from the edge of the roof, and it takes everything he has not to run straight to that old pervert’s house and beat him within an inch of his life.  
  
The picture is dark, but there’s no doubt about it: from a short distance away, behind the doors of the hotel maybe, it’s a photo of Shizu-chan pulling him forward for that mortifying kiss.  
  
There’s another vibration, and the text he was expecting suddenly appears.  
  
_‘What was with that little display afterward? Were you having a tsundere moment?’_  
  
He knows better than to ignore the messages. They’ll only get worse.  
  
_‘I’m not sure if that’s any of your business, old man.’_  
  
He thinks of the feeling that filled his chest, like helium stretching a balloon, when he looked up into Shizu-chan’s deep brown eyes. He'd watched in awe as his reflection in those shadowy irises grew closer until the brute was pressing their lips together. He thinks, in that moment, he'd felt so light that he could have just floated away.  
  
He checks his phone again as it buzzes.  
  
_‘You could be getting destroyed by him right now, you know, but you blew it.’_  
  
He knows better than to think that Koizumi means that they’d be fighting. He can feel his nerves concentrating right in the middle of his brow, a sharp headache pulsating under his skin.  
  
He’s not interested in being “destroyed” by Shizu-chan. He’s not interested in having anything to do with the monster at all, except maybe someday killing him. There’s a strange chemical in the oxygen here, he decides. It’s driving him and Shizu-chan crazy. Once they return home, Shizu-chan can throw some street signs and he can run back to Shinjuku, and finally, everything will return to normal.  
  
_‘Oh well,’_ he thinks, resting his head on top of his arms as he looks over the edge of the roof onto the city below, _‘if we’re just going to forget about everything once we leave, it doesn’t matter what we do here.’_

 

* * *

  
Ota-san is in a panic.  
  
“Heiwajima-san, p-please, let me clean it before you wrap it up!”  
  
Shizuo ignores him. He’s never gotten an infection before and he’s sure not planning to start now. He’s dug dirt into so many wounds in the past, scraped himself on rusty metal and shattered glass, and nothing seems to be able to penetrate the calloused wall that he’s built up between epidermis and everything else below.  
  
“What could have possibly happened?” Ota-san cries, flitting around him like a mosquito as he tightens the bandage around his hand with his teeth, “Did you get mugged? Where is Orihara-san?”  
  
The blond lets out a long breath, leaning back on the couch. He stares up into the ceiling for a bit, allowing Ota-san to get the rest of that panic out of his system before forcing himself to reply.  
  
“I got scratched by a really pissy cat,” he draws out, imagining Izaya in that moment with pinned down ears and a fluffed up tail, “I tried to pet him and he attacked me.”  
  
Ota-san looks appalled. He’s about to say something when they hear a rapping on the balcony door—three successive taps.  
  
Ota-san stands still then, thoroughly confused, until a series of less patient knocks shake the glass behind the curtain. He steps forward, sending Shizuo a horrified look over his shoulder as he pulls back the curtain.  
  
Shizuo rolls his eyes when he jumps back, nearly startled out of his skin. Izaya is leaning forward against the window, smirking like he didn’t just cause a gigantic scene in front of any remaining hotel workers who might not have thought they were crazy.  
  
“Leave him out there,” Shizuo huffs, sending the louse a glare, “let him sleep on the balcony if he can’t come in through the front door like a normal person.”  
  
Izaya bangs on the window again, a little harder. There’s a sour look on his face and he seems to be a little cold. He’s missing his jacket. Shizuo wonders if he’s having some sort of eccentric breakdown.  
  
Ota-san must have come to the conclusion that disobeying Izaya is more scary than disobeying him, because he lets the flea in pretty soon after.  
  
“Thank you, butler-san,” Izaya purrs, bowing deeply as he steps into the room, “Clearly you aren’t as incompetent as I’d originally assumed.”  
  
Shizuo meets Ota-san’s eyes, telling him mentally, _‘I told you so. You should have let him stay out there.’_  
  
The louse is looping around the room as though drunk. He’s rambling again about how easy it is for humans to be manipulated by the luster of monsters. Shizuo takes out a cigarette, ignoring Ota-san’s protests as he struggles not to break his lighter while lighting it.  
  
“Ah, Ota,” Izaya croons, resting his hands on his hips as he gets just a little too close to the older man, “you must be thinking now that you have your hands full with the both of us, right? Does it make you miss your estranged son, taking care of that monster over there?”  
  
Shizuo blows out a cloud of smoke.  
  
“Leave him alone,” he growls, glare sharp enough to cut glass.  
  
Izaya stops for a moment to grin his way, stepping back from Ota-san and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s being neurotic like this to compensate for something, Shizuo thinks. Any time there’s something up with his behavior, it’s always to camouflage a chink in his proverbial armor.  
  
Ota-san says that it’s fine, Orihara-san isn’t bothering him, but his voice sounds a little strange. The flea, true to his parasitic nature, has found the most sensitive spot and sunk his teeth into it.  
  
“And what will you do if I don’t, Shizu-chan? Hm? What if I just keep pushing poor butler-san’s buttons until he decides he doesn’t want to come back here anymore?”  
  
There’s a dangerous spark threatening to burst into flame between them. His muscles are screaming to carry him over the couch and toward the louse. Anger rumbles in his chest. His skin crawls with the need to crack the damn louse’s face open for thinking that he can just wander in here after causing such a scene and talk to other people like _they’re_ the ones who have something wrong with them.  
  
He takes another drag of his cigarette, thinks about lying out in the sun, of chocolate cake and milkshakes, and seeing Kasuka’s face on a movie poster.  
  
“I’ll kiss you again.”  
  
The flea is deflated just like that.

He steps back a few paces, grin suddenly darker and more sinister than he allowed just a moment prior. Shizuo can tell that he’s pissed off, especially when Ota-san gasps in surprise.  
  
Surprisingly, Izaya says nothing else to him, just slinks away to his room and closes the door behind him. He can hear the click of the lock as it turns, and Ota-san stares at him for a long time before either of them say a word.  
  
“My apologies, Heiwajima-san,” the older man starts, smoothing out his shirt in a fit of nervousness, “but I thought you said that you hated Orihara-san.”  
  
He thinks about the feeling of that blade against his throat, that odd, unnamed emotion that glimmered in Izaya’s eyes. He thinks of the feeling of the louse leaning against him in the laundry room.  
  
“I do,” he replies simply, taking another drag, “Are you not allowed to kiss people who you hate? Even if you’re only doing it because you know they hate it?”  
  
Ota-san looks doubtful, but he doesn’t press the matter. He knows better, probably.

 

* * *

 

  
Izaya awakens to the sound of his phone ringing.  
  
The sun is barely creeping over the horizon, and he squints at the too-bright glow of the screen in the darkness as he fumbles with the answer button.  
  
“Orihara Izaya,” he greets, dreary and still half-asleep.  
  
He hears only breathing, deep and needy, and as he finally snaps awake, horrified and ready to hang up, a voice calls out to him.  
  
_“Iza-chan, you didn’t think I’d actually harass you like that, did you?”_  
  
He groans, out loud this time, throwing his head back against his pillow and wishing he would have just turned his phone off.  
  
_“I’m not calling to tease you, so don’t be that way,”_ Koizumi chuckles, somehow perfectly awake at this hour, _“I want you to do some work for me today.”_  
  
He wants to tell the old man to kiss his ass, but this is what he signed up for. This, of all things—his actual, real job—is the first thing this entire trip long that he’s truly felt like refusing to do.  
  
“What is it?” he asks, not in the mood for any games.  
  
His head hurts already. He’d fallen in and out of sleep all night, restlessly mulling over everything that’s happened to him and Shizu-chan, wondering at which point he’d ruined things between them.  
  
_“Leave the monster at home,”_ Koizumi draws out, seeming to relish the bitterness in his silence, _“I want you to do some people-watching.”_

 

* * *

 

  
Shizuo awakens sometime in the early afternoon. It’s the first time he’s slept in his bed in a few days, and he wonders how he could have stayed away.  
  
There’s a moment of panic in which he thinks maybe he’s missed the first half of his shift, but slowly, the realization hits him that he’s off and free to do whatever with his day that he might want to. He gropes around on the night stand for his phone, tugging it free of the charger and flipping it open.  
  
Celty is still harassing him about how his trip is going. He would feel bad about avoiding the question, but he thinks maybe it’s better that he doesn’t worry her too much. He wants so badly to tell her about kissing Izaya in the pool and in the street, to confide in her that the louse had folded against him perfectly, like two pages in the same book, but he can’t. Not like this. It would be too many words, and surely she would refer him to the nearest shrink.  
  
She might even travel all the way over here and force him to get his head examined.  
  
There’s another text from a number he doesn’t recognize, and it takes him only a second to remember that Bunko-san had asked for his phone number at the end of his shift the day before yesterday.  
  
_“Hey, uh, Hayashi-kun,”_ she’d stumbled over her words in a way that wasn’t too unfamiliar to him, like he was making her nervous, _“If you’re not doing anything this weekend… would you like to get lunch?”  
_  
He’d been so happy to have made a friend here that he’d forced himself to accept.  
  
Usually, he muses, he tries to distance himself from people. While it doesn’t always work, he’s managed to keep a decent amount of Ikebukuro at arm’s length for most of his life. He thinks that Tom-san and Celty are strong enough to handle him, Kadota is too level-headed to ever piss him off, and Akane is too sweet. Someone like Bunko-san is completely foreign to him—a normal human, living her life completely separate from the daily oddities that seem to gravitate toward a monster like himself.  
  
So maybe it was weird of him to accept, because it’ll be dangerous going out with her in public where anyone is bound to piss him off, but it’s been lonely here, and Izaya has been so ambiguous lately that asking the flea to hang out would be a gamble in and of itself.  
  
Regardless, she sent him a text about fifteen minutes ago asking what time he might want to go out. He tells her that he just woke up and apologizes. He’ll be ready in half an hour.  
  
_‘Where do you want to meet?’_ He questions, sending the message before it gets too wordy.  
  
She gives him the directions to a café that’s only a mile away and he tells her that he’ll see her there. He contemplates inviting Izaya along as he pulls himself out of bed and selects a random outfit from the closet.  
  
However, the louse isn’t anywhere to be found when he leaves his room. His scent is faded, door closed but not locked. He considers cracking it open and looking for the informant inside, but he can’t sense him at all, and he knows he’ll just feel gross if he finds himself looking in there without Izaya around.  
  
Something about Izaya’s room seem off-limits, forbidden almost, and he doesn’t like the thought of being anywhere near it.  
  
It takes him little time to get ready. He thinks of leaving a note, but shakes the thought away. Izaya gave him no indication that he was leaving, so the louse can just deal with it.  
  
He doesn’t even consider that his feelings might be a little hurt, that it would have been nice to have spent the day exploring the city together. (Because that’s absolutely not it. He just hates the idea of the flea sneaking around.)  
  
The maids greet him as he steps out into the hall. He nods to them, wondering if he’s went and made a reputation for himself regardless of Ota-san’s warning, only as a shady guy who pays too much attention to the hotel staff instead of a monster who obliterates guard rails and street signs with a flick of his wrist.  
  
When he finally makes it outside, it’s warmer than it has been. He’s thankful because he forgot to grab a jacket, dressed only in a maroon shirt with sleeves reaching his elbows, form-fitting black pants, and a different pair of sneakers. He feels stupid anyway, unsure of if he looks like he actually knows how to dress himself or not. He tries not to focus on it as he checks Bunko-san’s directions and travels toward the café.  
  
He sends Celty a text.  
  
_‘I’m doing fine, stop worrying. I’ll explain when I get back.’_  
  
Her reply is immediate.  
  
_‘Have you met someone?’_  
  
He hates the way she can just read him like that, even when they’re texting. It’s not her fault, since he knows he vents to her entirely too much, but sometimes it would be nice if he could tell her _“it’s a secret”_ and she couldn’t figure it out right away.  
  
_‘I’ll explain when I get back.’  
_  
Before he can allow himself to think too much about what he’ll say, he spots Bunko-san waving at him from a few meters away. She’s sitting at a table outside of the café, dressed in a pink sundress and a wide-brimmed hat.  
  
“Hayashi-kun,” she greets as he makes his way over and takes a seat across from her, “you look nice.”  
  
She’s wearing makeup. He can only tell because her eyes seem larger than usual. He tells her that she does too, and she’s flustered immediately.  
  
The waitress arrives and she orders tea and some sort of pastry. He asks for a milkshake and cake. He thinks they sound like a couple of children, but he doesn’t say so. She’s smiling up at him in such a bashful way that he feels guilty. For tricking her, mainly, and all of the other workers at the catering company. Tomoko-san doesn’t understand that she’s planning a party for a criminal and she doesn’t know that her two newest employees are working for her just so they can use her to get to him. It’s sad to think of leaving everyone behind. They have only two weeks left and he wonders how he’ll feel when he leaves them.  
He’s been so caught up worrying about what’s been going on between him and Izaya that he’s barely even noticed how comfortable he’s gotten with this new life.  
  
“S-so, Hayashi-kun,” she starts, fiddling nervously with the edge of her napkin, “how do you like your job so far?”  
  
He tells her that it’s been nice, and he finds that he isn’t lying. She says something about liking her job too, that Tomoko-san is a good boss.  
  
“Do you think you’re interested in anyone at work?”  
  
It catches him off-guard when she asks, because he’s not sure what she’s getting at. It’s been a long time since he’s let himself have a crush on anyone—whatever this bullshit is between him and the flea definitely doesn’t count—and he thinks about their coworkers and what sort of lives they must lead when he's not around.  
  
“Eh,” he sighs, nodding his thanks at the waitress as she drops off their food and drinks, “I don’t think so. I’m not very good at dating.”  
  
He had crushes on a few girls in school, but he never found the courage to ask any of them out. He always ends up saying the wrong thing, even if his reputation doesn’t ruin his chances, and he thinks that maybe some people just aren’t meant to be with anyone else.  
  
Bunko-san is clearly embarrassed. Her head his bowed and her cheeks are stained red. She’s picking at her pastry and staring, brows furrowed, into her tea.  
  
“Can I tell you something?” she asks.  
  
He raises a brow, cheeks full of cake. He tells her, through a mouthful, of course.  
  
“T-to be honest,” she stutters, shoulders trembling, “I think I have a crush on Maki-kun.”  
  
At first, he finds himself thinking, _‘A rival’_ , but he has no idea where that thought came from and it pisses him off. A rival in what? Getting fucked over by Izaya? No thanks, she can have him.  
  
Well, not really, because he would never allow someone as innocent and pure as Bunko-san to get mixed up with a living dumpster like Izaya, but he won’t stop her from pining after whatever act the louse is playing in order to mask the stench of his evil intentions.  
  
“I-I know that he’s interested in Shizu-chan though!” she cries out suddenly, bumping the table in her eagerness and rattling the dinnerware, “But he says she doesn’t feel the same way, and he’s such a sweet guy, and so handsome... He always says the most insightful things when Kyou-chan has a problem. He reads people so well.”  
  
That much is true, Shizuo admits to himself, glowering down at the crumbs of his devoured cake.  
  
He doesn’t really understand how no one has been able to see right through the louse’s act and call him out as the piece of human garbage that he is. He wonders what a charming Izaya would even look like. How do normal people see the informant? Is he friendly? Is he funny? Does he somehow not cause gross tremors to shutter down their spines?  
  
“I don’t like him,” he says finally, noticing the worried way that Bunko-san is flicking her eyes from the table to him, then back, “I don’t trust him at all.”  
  
She giggles at that, tearing a piece off of her pastry and nibbling on it.  
  
“Can I tell you something else?” She asks.  
  
He drinks some of his milk and nods. Birds call out overhead. An elderly couple sips tea two tables away. Wealthy-looking people pass by with arms full of shopping bags. The sun is high in the cloudless sky. It’s bright and warm, and he can’t believe that he’s wasting such a beautiful day thinking about Orihara Izaya.  
  
“I know there’s something weird going on between the two of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! I'm sorry (but maybe not, but I am sorry for not really feeling too bad about it)! I really enjoy an aggressive, embarrassed Izaya. And I also enjoy a blunt Shizuo, so this chapter made me really happy to write. I wrote a story a long time ago called 'A Different Day', which was the sequel to another story, and there was a part in it where Izaya invited Shizuo to lunch every day on his break. Even more so than pool scenes, I love the idea of the two of them eating casually together. What can they possibly talk about? How did they end up in that position? It kills me.
> 
> I hate saying that I like a character that I made up, but Ota-san seems like a cool dude to me. Sort of sketchy though, so keep an eye on him.
> 
> I guess I'm leaning toward a Tuesday-Friday posting schedule, so let's see if we can stick to that!
> 
> As always, thank you for hanging around and reading this gigantic mess of a story, and I hope to see you guys again on Friday!


	5. No Use Crying Over Spilled Sushi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell hath no fury like an embarrassed Orihara Izaya.

It’s too hot.

Bark is digging into his side. His shirt has ridden halfway up his back, and he thinks he might have been bitten by every type of insect in existence.

He’s sitting on a large, tangled branch of a tree far from the ground, peering through a pair of binoculars through the windows of Fukayama’s estate. Nothing interesting has happened for four hours, he notes, scowling at the numbers on his phone. It’s the warmest part of the day, he’s hungry, and all that he has to show for his day is a notebook full of the type of coffee Fukayama drank, how many times he’s went to the bathroom, and the raunchy movie he sat down to watch almost an hour ago and hasn’t quite finished.

The maids have been more interesting. They’ve been bickering with each other all day. They might be the loose thread that Izaya could pull to find a way in, if he were allowed to. He could just manipulate one of them into turning on the others: tell her that he can sneak in and set them up for a crime and get them fired, then steal the money right out from underneath Fukayama’s nose. He’d texted Koizumi this earlier in the day, explained that it might take him another two days tops to get the job done, but the old pervert was determined that the job needed to be done as planned.

 _‘It’s not worth the effort if we don’t shake him up,’_ Koizumi had explained, _‘your monster boyfriend might be a wildcard, but he’s the pawn that will win us the game. Fukayama will not mess with us again if he knows we have something like that on our team.’_

Izaya thinks that maybe Koizumi doesn’t understand games. (Cards? Pawn? Teams? What exactly is he playing?) He also doesn’t know anything about Shizu-chan, because the brute is on no one else’s team but his own. Maybe _not even_ his own, he muses. The blond is just a hurricane tearing through the city streets, raging blindly with no regard for the destruction he leaves in his wake.

He decides that four hours is enough time, texting Koizumi to tell him that nothing of interest has happened. He’s scouted out a few convenient exits, calculated a personality type for Fukayama, memorized the paths of his staff as they make their daily rounds, and he feels that it’s enough for now. Shizu-chan has been allowed two real days off now, but _he’s_ still working. It’s time for him to relax.

He’s thinking about taking a nice cold bath as he’s climbing down the tree. Maybe he’ll order some ootoro and watch a movie. Maybe he’ll take a trip downstairs to the pool.

 _‘There’s one more thing I need for you to do.’_ Koizumi texts.

He replies with just a question mark, feet landing on the soft grass with little noise before he stretches the kinks out of his back.

He wonders what Shizu-chan is doing right now. Probably basking in the sun. The brute is such an animal.

_‘Send me a picture.’_

He sighs, turning off his phone.

The bus ride home is a little lonely with so many humans deciding to enjoy the weather and walk. He rests his head against the cool glass of the window, watching as buildings blur by and people seem to streak into the backdrop of the city.

They come to a stop just a mile from the hotel, allowing an old couple to leave a café nearby and board, and right as he’s beginning to zone out, he spots a familiar patch of blond hair.

Shizu-chan is sitting at a table outside of the café. He’s chatting casually with the redhead from work. Bunko-chan, yes, the quiet one. There’s color on his cheeks and she’s smiling. If he didn’t know any better, he would think they were on a date.

He feels sick, suddenly. The heat seems to have gotten to him.

His eyes can’t leave the couple until they’re completely out of sight, two small dots in the distance melding together into one. He wonders how he didn’t notice the two of them interacting at work. When did Shizu-chan find the time to talk to her? What could they possibly have in common?

Shizu-chan is so boring, aside from being a monster, and Bunko-chan is so plain. She dyes her hair red for attention because she’s too insecure to speak up for herself. He can’t believe that the protozoan would be interested in a girl who puts so much effort into standing out in a crowd. He can’t believe Shizu-chan can look at that gaudy shade of red and think of anything but the obnoxious hue of a stop sign.

 _‘Stop! This girl is tedious!’_ it seems to scream.

He’s so distracted that he stumbles on his way out of the bus. He doesn’t even remember to order food when he returns to the suit. He doesn’t turn on the TV or take a cold bath. He doesn’t take a trip down to the pool.

He doesn’t even change into his pajamas, just slips off his shoes, slides under his blankets, and goes back to bed.  


* * *

 

 

It smells like Izaya is back when he lets himself into the suite.

Shizuo isn’t really sure how he feels right now, after his lunch with Bunko-san. She apologized after he’d broken his glass in his hand, telling him that it was just a theory of hers that the two of them were messing around behind the scenes.

 _“Everyone jokes about Maki-kun staring at you all of the time,”_ she’d squeaked _, “but I’ve noticed you staring at him too! Maybe not at his butt, like he does with you, b-but—um, well, you always seem a little bit annoyed, but sometimes when you look at him, you just look sad.”_

He’d wanted to tell her that he’s depressed about having to work with such a piece of shit, but he didn’t. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember ever looking at the louse that way. He didn’t understand why looking sadly at someone would even equal liking them, but he had to tell himself, struggling to stay calm, that not everyone spends their time memorizing human behaviors like the flea.

It was too awkward for them to do anything together after that, so Bunko-san thanked him for lunch and they promised to do it again sometime. He thinks maybe they were both agreeing silently that they would never even consider it, but he’s not sure. He just hopes the louse is planning on being a little less of a headache today, since it’s their day off.

He looks around the room, noting that Izaya isn’t in the bathroom, on the balcony, in the living room, or anywhere else. He feels strange coming to stand in front of the louse’s door. It takes him a minute to gain the courage to knock.

“Flea,” he calls, rapping three times against the wood.

There’s no answer.

He can hear the other man stirring though, so he knocks again. There’s no sign of light from under the door. Has he really been napping? He’s wasting their day off in bed?

Izaya is definitely in there, but he’s not saying a word. He thinks Shizuo is stupid enough to leave him alone, probably, but he’s out of luck. He’s not going to spend his entire day alone. He’s not allowed to.

After plenty of mental preparation, he turns the knob and swings the door open. He’s instantly flooded with the stench of flea, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Izaya is a mound of blankets on the bed. He’s never seen anything quite as pathetic in his life.

It takes everything he has not to turn around and leave instead of coming to stand over the informant’s bed, but he manages somehow. He can see the blankets moving just a little, as though Izaya thinks that he’ll be fooled by this stupid act and leave him alone.

“How was your date?” a voice, muffled, draws out from inside of the cocoon.

He huffs a little, strangely not surprised that Izaya found out about that somehow.

“You sure didn’t waste any time finding a human to chase after, did you, monster?”

There’s an ugly bite to the louse’s words that reminds him of last night, as they stood together on the sidewalk and Izaya held a knife to his throat. The reasonable part of him knows that the informant is always unpleasant, but the crazier part of his brain suggests that maybe he sounds a little jealous.

“She wanted to talk to me about you,” he replies bluntly, not really seeing the point in messing around, “She thinks she can steal you away from Shizu-chan. She has a crush on you.”

He feels a little bad for selling her out, but he thinks that might be why she told him in the first place. She’s so shy, so she thinks that she can talk to a moron like him and he’ll let it slip.

Which, to be fair, he just did.

There’s no movement beneath the blanket. He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits.

“She’s so predictable,” the louse sighs, so dramatic in his musings that Shizuo thinks that maybe he’s actually a little surprised, “I called her cute the other day, so she falls for me. Girls like that are so boring. Barely even a challenge at all.”

It’s annoying how the flea is talking about poor Bunko-san, but he ignores it. There’s a pretty good chance that he’s just acting out to get a rise out of him.

“Drop it,” he grumbles, grabbing a fistful of blanket and pulling it away from the other man, “and get up. We’re doing something today.”

Izaya looks up at him in the dark, sunlight struggling to creep in through the cracks in the curtain, and he’s suddenly reminded of the shadows in the informant’s eyes the night that they kissed in the pool. He’s not sure what had come over him—neither then or yesterday when he kissed the louse again—but something about the way those eyes looked like black stones glistening in the darkness had caused a madness to erupt inside of him that wasn’t satiated until he’d forced their lips together.

He allows himself to fall forward onto the bed, hands on either side of Izaya’s head, one foot flat on the floor while the opposite knee rests on the mattress.

Izaya’s eyes widen before he can stop himself. Shizuo relishes the look of surprise that he can’t quite hide.

“You’re just mad that she thinks you’d forget about _Shizu-chan_ so easily,” he breathes, face so close to the informant that he can feel the other man’s breath against his cheeks.

Izaya glares up at him, but it’s transparent. He pulls his other leg onto the bed, knees on either side of the flea’s hips. He’s not really sure what he’s doing, but the thought of Bunko-san capturing Izaya’s attention is annoying. It’s Izaya’s fault somehow, for tricking her, he’s sure, and he has no idea what kind of punishment this is supposed to be—only that it feels even better than ripping a stoplight from the cement.

“Shizu-cha—“

He’s kissing Izaya again, dragging a hand over to comb it through the other man’s hair. Izaya makes an odd noise, a strangled moan, like he hates himself for it, but he’s also been taken over by this strange insanity that he’s instilled in Shizuo.

They’re kissing, and then his hand is under Izaya’s shirt. His lips are against the louse’s throat. He’s nipping lightly at the spot between neck and shoulder, running his fingers over a tiny nub that causes Izaya to shiver. He never put too much thought into men’s nipples until now, dragging his nail over it as gently as he can and swallowing a smirk as the louse curses at him. His knee finds its way between Izaya’s legs, pressed loosely against a hardness that it takes him awhile to realize is actually the other man’s erection.

The whole room is a cloud of flea-scent. He’s drowning in it, drunk and dizzy as his teeth leave tiny marks all the way down to Izaya’s collarbone.

Just as his hand is traveling from chest to stomach, from stomach to the waistline of Izaya’s pants, there’s a crashing sound from the doorway behind them. Izaya jolts upward, moronic in his panic as his head bangs against Shizuo’s with a resounding _‘crack’_.

The louse hisses out a curse, gripping his head and doubling over.

He turns to find the source of the noise, noting the mess of movies and food scattered around on the floor in the doorway, but nothing that could have caused it.

Curiosity piqued, he decides to leave Izaya to his pain.

He steps over the pile, peeking around the corner and noticing, with a start, Ota-san covering his face on the couch.

“I’m so sorry, Heiwajima-san,” he croaks, ears bright red, “I should have knocked! I came in and I heard those noises! I thought Orihara-san was hurt! He’s never left his door open before, so I-I-I’m so sorry!”

Shizuo sits next to him on the couch, pulling a cigarette from the smashed carton in his pocket and lighting it between his lips. Ota-san is too mortified to complain about it and Izaya slams his door closed a second later, so he smokes in silence. He wonders how he’s the only one in this entire suite who has managed to keep his cool through all of this.

“It’s fine,” he says after Ota-san seems to calm down, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke.

He wants to explain that it’s not what he thinks, but he has a feeling that it’s actually exactly what he thinks and maybe there’s no use in denying it anymore.

He’s really not sure what’s going on between them, but it’s definitely abnormal and absolutely Izaya’s fault. He can’t control himself when the louse looks up at him like that, dark eyes hooded by thick lashes, that stupid smirk cleaned from his lips. The hardness in his pants that had begun to fade returns swiftly at the thought of it, and he shuffles uncomfortably in hopes that Ota-san doesn’t notice.

“A-ah, well,” Ota-san stumbles over his words, “I was actually just planning to stop by for a moment. My… my kids are waiting in the car. I picked you up some things from the store.”

He thanks the older man, still a little flustered at the thought of someone going out of their way to help him.

“Don’t worry about this,” he says quietly, wondering if he should pat Ota-san on the back like Tom-san always does to him when he’s fretting, “Just go.”

It sounds a little harsh, but Ota-san seems to understand just fine.

He tells Shizuo to call him if he needs something, and Shizuo promises himself that he won’t.

After he leaves, it’s a little too quiet in the suite. He tries not to focus on what he and Izaya might have been doing if Ota-san hadn’t stumbled in. His phone buzzes and he knows it’s Celty again. She hasn’t stopped harassing him since he tried to blow her off this morning.

He lets out a long breath, leaning back as far as he can against the couch. He might break his phone if she keeps pestering the shit out of him. Unlike the louse, he doesn’t have a spare.

Izaya’s door cracks open quietly. He can smell it more than he can hear it. The louse slips from his room, past the mess Ota-san left and over to the couch. He settles in right against Shizuo’s side. He’s wearing his day clothes: a simple, black long-sleeved shirt and gray pants. His style honestly hasn’t change much, aside from the absence of the ugly jacket that he usually drags around with him, even in the summer. Without it, he just looks thin.

He thinks for a moment about what he wants to do.

On one hand, whatever they were doing back there was really nice. This week has been so insane that he doesn’t even have the energy to fight it. Maybe when they return home, they can forget any of this ever happened, but for now, what would be wrong with divulging themselves? On the other hand, he wants to do something meaningful today, for their first day off. They have more time tomorrow too, but it wouldn’t feel quite as special.

“You’re thinking too much, protozoan,” Izaya sighs, leaning his head against Shizuo’s shoulder, “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

He scoffs, noting the bruise that’s forming on the louse’s forehead. He’s one to talk.

They sit together for a bit. He listens to Izaya’s breathing and the louse closes his eyes. He decides, if this is some kind of trick, he might have to respect Izaya a little more from now on. He looks so content, just sitting here together, and the hardness that he’d been grinding against Shizuo’s leg earlier definitely wasn’t fake. He would be putting so much effort into this practical joke, if it’s actually a joke, that Shizuo thinks maybe just poisoning him would be better.

He opens the camera app on his phone. He’s not sure if he’s ever used it before, so it takes him a moment to figure out how to work it. Turning the phone backward, he squints into the camera, ignoring the stupid way the louse holds up a peace sign and winks like a child. He doesn’t actually smile, and it looks like he’s about to break something in the picture he’s taken, or maybe like he’s trying to read very tiny text on the wall across the room.

“What a cute selfie, Shizu-chan,” Izaya quips, leaning further against him to look at the photo on his impossibly small screen, “Are you going to make it your wallpaper?”

He’s teasing, obviously, and Shizuo grumbles a little. He fumbles with the controls of his phone as he attaches photo to text, selecting Celty’s number and sending it.

 _‘I told you that I’ll explain later, so please listen next time.’_ He adds, for good measure.

It takes her awhile to reply, but when she does, it’s one text after another, quicker than he’s ever received any amounts of texts before. His phone vibrates so hard that he thinks it might start smoking soon.

_‘Izaya’s with you?!?!?!’_

_‘Why is Izaya with you?!!?!?!!?’_

_‘Wait a minute, you’re actually seeing someone, right?!?!! Why is Izaya there?!?!!? Shizuo, please explain!!!!’_

_‘Shizuo?!?!?!’_

_‘SHIZUO?!?!?!?!’_

Izaya is cackling like a crazy person. He’s gripping Shizuo’s arm, reading the texts as they come endlessly and acting like a giddy child. If Shizuo didn’t know any better, he would think that the louse would rather be nowhere else but here, that he’s truly content to just sit by his side and tease Celty, but he knows that nothing with the other man is so simple. It hurts a little to remind himself because it’s nice to spend time with someone else like this, but…

Izaya can’t be trusted. Even if his feelings are real and this entire thing isn’t an intricate joke, there’s no way he could ever handle the heart of another person and not tear it to shreds.

Eventually, he goes outside to enjoy the sun. Izaya teases him for it, compares him to a sunbathing lizard, but it feels wasteful to sit inside when the weather is so beautiful.

He pulls a long deck chair toward the center of the balcony, lying down and tucking his hands behind his head. The louse doesn’t really know what he’s missing.

Or maybe he does, because he appears maybe ten minutes later.

He’s changed his clothes into something that Shizuo has never seen him in before—a loose, sleeveless black shirt and shorts, and it takes him awhile to drag his eyes away from those milky legs. The louse pulls an oversized pair of sunglasses over his face, dragging the other chair right next to Shizuo’s and lying down.

“The sun ages you, you know,” Izaya states matter-of-factly, and Shizuo can smell the sweetness of sunscreen on his skin, “Shizu-chan is going to be a raisin by the time he’s eighty, if he even lives that long.”

He ignores it, numbers jumbling in his head as he tries not to let the louse get to him. It feels too nice out here, too serene, and even Izaya can’t ruin that.

They talk about the job a little. Izaya tells him about security and Fukayama’s demeanor. He thinks he’ll try to act tough, so Shizuo is going to have to use a little bit of force.

“Not that it will be a problem for you,” he sighs, eying the him over the top of his sunglasses.

The sight of tiny red marks along the informant’s neck catches his attention. He wonders if Izaya noticed them, what he plans to say to anyone who asks.

 _“I was attacked by a monster,”_ he’s sure.

It’s peaceful here, tucked away from the world, watching as the sun moves through the sky and it slowly becomes darker. They might not have done anything exciting, but secretly, he thinks maybe it’s been a good day anyway.

“We should get dinner,” Izaya suggests, stomach gurgling a little right as he says it. Shizuo wonders if he’s been eating enough.

So they find themselves walking to the nearest restaurant not long after, the louse still dressed in those shorts that Shizuo thinks might be a little too short for his sanity.

 

* * *

 

 

The streetlamps begin to light up as they’re walking down the sidewalk. Shizu-chan is acting a little funny, looking at him like he’s done something wrong.

He tries to keep his mind off of the feeling of the brute’s teeth against his skin earlier, the sensation of hot breath ghosting over his neck, those fingers traveling further and further down—

Okay, don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it. This is not the proper place to be thinking about it.

There’s a special place in Hell for Shizu-chan’s butler, he thinks. He’s suspected for a while now that he’s the one who has been feeding Koizumi information about the two of them. He hates the thought of what kinds of messages he’ll be receiving when Ota-san finally gets around to tattling.

They settle on a sushi place after passing many buildings. It looks quiet inside, and he knows that’s the only reason why Shizu-chan is okay with letting him choose a restaurant that surely has no dessert. He wonders if the brute has eaten anything but cake since they’ve gotten here. How long before then? Has Shizu-chan lived his entire life eating only sweets? Is that the secret to his monstrous strength?

A bell jingles overhead as they enter. An older man greets them and they find a booth away from everyone else.

He orders ootoro and Shizu-chan orders a sampler. Of course the monster has a large appetite to match everything else. Although, with the way Shizuo was trying to devour him earlier, maybe he should have already known.

Ugh, what a gross thought.

He watches a few patrons eating their meals. There’s a middle aged couple across the room who keep staring at them, muttering among themselves. He pretends that he doesn’t notice. It’s more fun to map out the lines of distaste that crease across their features. It’s more entertaining to imagine what rude things they’re saying.

“Hey, Shizu-chan,” he starts, not taking his eyes off of the couple, “Would you say that you like people?”

Shizuo looks at him, then at the people across the room. His brow twitches, annoyance obvious in the way he squares his shoulders.

“Not really,” he sighs, “That’s more of your thing.”

Izaya wants to tell him that maybe he should stop making so many friends if he claims to hate people so much, but instead, he just laughs. He’s thankful, at least, that the monster isn’t a rival in his fight for human love.

“Your tiny monster brain probably won’t understand, but humans are so entertaining,” he sighs, resting his chin on top of his hands, smiling lovingly at the glares he’s receiving from the couple in return, “Those humans hate us because they think we’re on a date. When faced with the abnormal, they’re very quick to turn on their own kind. But you know that, don’t you? You’ve experienced it your entire life.”

The blond flinches a little, as though he’s barely containing the urge to destroy their table.

“Furthermore,” he adds, before Shizu-chan can ruin the moment by saying something stupid, “it doesn’t affect them at all. Unlike the way that you break everything during your tantrums, regardless of who it belongs to or how important it is, if we went back to the hotel and made love for the rest of the night, would they even know? It wouldn’t change their lives at all, and yet, they’re allowing themselves to get worked up over two strangers who, in reality, can’t even stand each other.”

Shizuo’s face is a little pink when he finishes. The blond is looking at him like he’s said something indecent. Maybe the silly girls at work were right, maybe Shizu-chan does get a little too worked up over perverted things.

“I don’t think people who hate each other make love,” the brute says slowly, scooting back in his seat as the waitress drops off their plates, “If we were _making love_ , it would mean that we were _in love_.”

It’s hard not to notice the heat that rises in his chest at the words. Shizu-chan is so nasty, always saying the worst thing. He fixes the monster with a stern look, like he’s reprimanding a child.

“Is that a confession?”

Shizuo looks at him then, brows furrowed. He downs a few pieces of sushi, doesn’t reply for a long time. The couple across the room appears to be complaining to the waitress about something.

Finally, the monster speaks, and he really wishes he would have just kept his mouth shut.

“It might be,” he says, eyes boring holes in the mask Izaya is struggling to keep in place, “If you think that we’re going to make love, then yeah, I guess I’d be in love with you.”

They glare at each other, both refusing to back down and be the first to get too embarrassed and look away. Shizu-chan is such a hypocrite, hating someone like Koizumi for being too forward, but saying even more appalling things.

“Would you have preferred if I’d said something like _‘if we fucked’_? What would that mean for us then?” He’s trying hard to break Shizuo’s stare; to rile him up, maybe.

The protozoan has him at a disadvantage, whether he knows it or not, and sitting here, vulnerable in front of a monster, is not a good place to be.

Shizuo looks away finally, eats some more sushi. He seems strangely casual about this entire thing. Somehow, while he disfigures people over looking at him wrong, tears doors off of cars if they honk too close to him, this is the one thing that Heiwajima Shizuo can experience without breaking into a fit.

“I’d probably still be in love with you,” he replies, mouth full of rice, “But who knows. I’m too stupid to understand these things, so I probably don’t know what I’m saying.”

Izaya stands then, abruptly, ignoring the way his chair scrapes against the floor.

Storming away, he doesn’t even have the strength to send one last smile to the grumbling couple as he passes by.

The air is still just a little too warm when he makes it outside. His stomach growls impatiently at him, but he ignores it. Shizu-chan is such a monster. He definitely deserves to die.

He waits out there, leaning his back against the side of the building until Shizu-chan finally comes outside to get him. He has a to-go container in his hands, and he seems surprised to find Izaya standing out there waiting.

“Why didn’t you come back?” he asks. Izaya hates how unaffected he is.

What an ass. Why can’t he throw something like usual?

He glares at the brute, turning to walk back toward their hotel. Shizu-chan has other ideas though, grabbing him by the wrist and holding him there. He doesn’t struggle because he knows it’s useless. He reminds himself that his knife if under the waist of his pants, pressed against his side. Just in case he decides to slice open the monster’s hand again.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he says quietly, “just take this fucking sushi.”

He hands it over like this isn’t a tense moment, like Izaya isn’t drowning in the need to tear open his jugular.

It’s infuriating how blasé he is about all of this, like he’s still stupid enough to consider this job a vacation. Shizu-chan is always a loan shark, five days a week, so this should feel like work for him. The monster should be freaking out! He should be throwing things, cracking some skulls, making some new enemies!

When his arm is freed, he starts walking again. Shizuo lags behind. He’s so frustrating, so stupid that he makes Izaya want to vomit.

They make it back the hotel in silence. This scene is so familiar to him by now: the two of them wandering in, not speaking to each other because of something stupid, because Shizu-chan either can’t keep his ignorant mouth shut or won’t say anything at all.

When they enter the suite, Shizuo can barely get the door closed before Izaya is pushing him against the wall, blade against his throat as dark eyes glitter in the unlit room. He could easily overpower the informant, they both know this, and Izaya refuses to think about why he doesn’t even try.

The sushi has spilled out along the floor. Neither of them pretend to care.

Shizu-chan sits still, back flush against the wall right by the door. He doesn’t reach for the light switch or push Izaya off. He simply stares downward, eyes stony and agonizingly bright. He lets Izaya have his fun and simply watches, like he’s above all of this somehow.

Like he thinks Izaya won’t hurt him.

“Why are you doing this?” Izaya grits out, hating the way the brute’s stare is causing something in his chest to flutter, “Why are you acting like there’s something going on between us? We hate each other, remember? You try to kill me, I run from you. I frame you for a crime, you throw a fit like a spoiled child. Have you forgotten? Did you hit your monster head too hard?”

Shizuo is so quiet that it’s unsettling. He’s not giving anything away, not an inkling of what he’s thinking, nor a weird intake of breath, a twitch of his shoulders—nothing at all. He stares, blankly, and it’s maddening.

At long last, he reaches up, placing a hand around Izaya’s wrist. It’s not tight enough to hurt, or even to stop him from pushing the knife harder against his throat. It’s just enough to shoot electricity across Izaya’s skin.

“I can’t stop looking at your eyes,” he says, and he surely can’t comprehend the weight of those words, how they spread such a deadly fire through Izaya’s veins, “I can’t stop thinking about how dark they looked that night.”

Shizu-chan is so stupid. His eyes aren’t so dark. There’s nothing impressive about them; just simple brown.

“You walked through the living room in that towel, the second night we were here,” he breathes, trembling with something akin to need, his hand feeling so heavy against the informant’s wrist, “I thought about your skin. It’s whiter than mine and you have no scars. You’re softer than I am. Your eyes get so dark when you’re looking at me. I hate you, but I can’t stop thinking about you, shitty louse. It’s your fault, but I want to do things to you that you’d hate. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

It’s a jumble of thoughts, and Izaya wonders if this is how it would feel to read the idiot’s mind; if his needs come to him as just feelings with no thoughts. He wonders if it’s a struggle for him to find the right narrative for everything he feels within that puny little brain of his.

“And maybe Chiyo-san and the others are right,” his face is so close to Izaya’s that their noses are almost touching, “I might not want to sleep with someone if I don’t love them, but I want to sleep with you, so I don’t understand what that means. I’m an idiot, just like you keep saying. I don’t get this! I don’t understand it at all. You keep doing these things to me and I want to kill you.”

Izaya is shocked, standing in frozen silence. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s shaking, knees so weak that Shizu-chan is the only thing holding him up. He thinks of Shinra calling him fragile, claiming that his heart would shatter under the weight of real love. He hates even thinking of such a thing at a time like this. It’s wrong, because this animalistic urge of the monster’s is not that. This is not a confession. Shizu-chan is not sharing a cosmic secret with him. He’s going to slice open the beast’s skin and stain the floor with mutant crimson. He’s going to watch Shizu-chan die, and he’ll laugh—

But now they’re kissing and he drops his knife to the floor. It clatters and he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound. Everything is raw, like rubbing a rash, like peeling a sunburn too early. He wants to pull away almost as much as his body urges him to kiss back.

Shizu-chan’s hands find their way to his ass. It’s vulgar, the way the other man squeezes him. They’re both huffing out tiny breaths, making little noises. He pulls at that blond hair, bites at the monster’s lip. They’re slipping toward the couch, and then Shizu-chan is on top of him.

Shizuo is nipping at his neck again, tracing over the old marks. He rakes his nails along the blond’s back. A tight warmth coils deep within his belly. He’s so hard that it aches. His shirt is pulled off, thrown to the floor, and Shizu-chan drags wet kisses down his stomach. This is all happening so fast. He’s woozy with need.

The brute looks to him then, face flushed and hair hanging in his eyes. He seems to find whatever he’s looking for, because then he’s palming Izaya’s erection through his shorts, working the zipper with his other hand. His eyes are glazed with more want than Izaya has ever seen directed toward himself in his entire life.

And his pants are pulled to his ankles, penis bobbing through the opening in his underwear, red-tipped and proud. He only has a second to be mortified, however. It disappears from his view completely before he can even comprehend what is going on.

Shizu-chan is so hungry, he thinks, struggling not to throw his head back. He digs his fingers in the monster’s hair. Shizuo has taken the entire thing down his throat without even the hint of a gag.

He’s a little sloppy, but it’s not like Izaya would know the difference. He’s no virgin, but this—watching a monster bobbing his head in his lap, feeling that tongue working along the shaft and lapping hungrily at the head, the feeling of it causing him to twitch and gasp like a girl in a bad porno—this is completely foreign to him.

He doesn’t last very long, but Shizuo doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t even pull back as an orgasm wracks through Izaya’s body, a thundering of ecstasy that rattles his entire being. He’s horrified as he catches a glimpse of the monster swallowing every drop.

He’s breathing deeply now, struggling to get ahold of himself and stop looking like such an inexperienced teenager in front of his life-long nemesis. Shizu-chan rises to sit next to him, lighting a cigarette and watching him through the corner of his eye.

The silence is heavy as Izaya finally calms down. He’s hyper-aware of his shorts around his ankles, of Shizuo’s weight next to him. The room is buzzing. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. His heartbeat pumps hard against his breastbone.

“I’m not very good at these things,” Shizuo says after enough time has passed that Izaya’s worked his shorts back up around his waist, “I don’t know what this means.”

He pulls himself up, crossing his legs and allowing a smirk to work its way along his lips.

“It means that Shizu-chan is a pervert,” he sighs, combing a hand through sweaty hair, “No better than my stalker.”

Shizuo scoffs at that. He takes a long drag. He exhales, shaking his head and leaning toward Izaya then. He smells like cigarettes and nothing else. Breathing a huff, he leaves a gentle kiss on the informant’s lips, clicking his tongue and leaning back in place.

“I hate you,” he grumbles, the bud of his cigarette the brightest light in the room, “But I can’t stop thinking about kissing you until you learn how to shut the Hell up.”

Izaya laughs only because he’s too embarrassed to articulate a clever response.

“You must have it bad for me,” he teases, leaning back against the couch, “You didn’t even make me repay you.”

And it’s Shizuo’s turn to laugh. It’s the first time he’s ever heard it, genuine and light, like the blond has nothing left to hide from him.

“I thought you were going to have a seizure,” he chuckles, “You were shaking like you’ve never cum before. What the Hell was I supposed to do? Force you?”

He glares at the blond, thankful for the way the darkness masks the color that rises to his cheeks. He wasn’t shaking that hard. Like the monster is so experienced anyway! He’s sure he could make the brute tremble without even trying.

“I might have been confessing at the restaurant,” Shizu-chan sighs, so relaxed that Izaya thinks maybe he’s lost his mind, “Or I might have evolved to the point of hating you so much that I can’t tell the difference.”

That doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s such a stupid thing to say that Izaya questions if he’s really falling for the right type after all. Sure, Shizu-chan is cute and all, but the disaster that tumbles out every time he opens his mouth is so horrendous that maybe this is all just a big mistake.

The darkness is so thick around them and Shizu-chan’s warmth is radiant. One moment, he thinks he might reply, formulate a quick comeback that will have the monster throwing things around like normal, but then he’s falling asleep and Shizuo is wrapped around him like a blanket.

It doesn’t feel good at all. There is no comfort in the feeling of that strong heartbeat against his back.

In reality, he hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I cheated! I said Friday, but then everything got too exciting, and... I might be more enthusiastic about this story than anyone else. Although, my excuse is that I was actually really late posting on Tuesday, so here you go!
> 
> Anyway, I really liked writing this part of the story! Somehow, Shizuo kind of crept up and ended up accepting things long before Izaya could even fathom what he was feeling. Koizumi also wasn't involved in this chapter as much, which I think for a lot of people might be a bonus! Turn your phone back on, Izaya!
> 
> Spring break is next week, so I'm hoping to finish writing this story by next weekend. It will take a lot longer than that to post it all, but things will be a little less chaotic when I'm done.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! See you guys Tuesday!


	6. Skirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Film is food for the soul. Cross-dressing is food for the eyes.

Shizuo is surprised when he awakens and Izaya is still slumbering in his arms.

He needs a drink, but there’s no moving without waking the informant up.

 _‘Oh well,’_ he thinks, sitting maybe a little quicker than he should, practically throwing the louse onto the floor, _‘it’s a necessary evil.’_

Izaya is brandishing a knife in no time, eyes barely even open as he’s swinging the damn thing around. It’s funny watching him freak out, as he’s reaching in the mini fridge and Izaya finally puts together where he is and why he’s found himself on the floor.

“What are you planning on doing with that anyway?” he asks, popping the lid off of the milk and lifting it to his lips, “Gonna give me another paper cut?”

He holds up the fading scar on his palm, downing the bottle in one long gulp. Izaya glowers at him, snapping the blade back into the safety. He doesn’t pull himself back onto the couch. He just sits there, crossing his legs and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re just going to throw me around after all of that garbage you were spewing last night? What happened to all of that crap about _love_?”

Shizuo scoffs. There’s an odd feeling settling somewhere in his gut. He thinks he might have said too much too soon. In the light, when he can look at the asshole’s face, really read the dishonesty that seems to bleed through the lines of Izaya’s smile, he seems a lot less unappealing.

“Milk is more important than any of that shit,” he says simply.

Izaya makes a dramatic little whine, but they both know he’s talking out of his ass. The weight of his words is so heavy that neither of them can breathe. Whatever it was that was growing so naturally between them, be it respect or comradery or anything else, he definitely ruined it last night.

The flea fetches his phone out of his pocket. Just as he turns it on, it vibrates. Shizuo is thankful for the distraction.

He makes a face, typing quicker than Shizuo ever thought possible.

“It seems that I don’t get a day off his weekend,” he sighs.

He seems tired. Shizuo wonders if he should offer to help, but he knows better than to even consider it. Izaya would surely harass him for trying too hard to gain his attention, or something equally as stupid and wrong.

The informant pulls himself to his feet, remembering to grab clothes from his room for the first time Shizuo’s witnessed, before heading into the bathroom and closing the door softly behind him.

 

* * *

 

  
A long, black limo is waiting outside for him when he leaves the hotel. Shizu-chan had reminded him of a dog watching its owner wave goodbye at the beginning of the day, and he wonders if he’s starting to like dogs more or the brute less.

The driver opens the door for him. He sends the man a sly grin, relishing the way he flinches in response. He likes that they understand how dangerous he is. Even if Koizumi is messing with him like this, he still understands how easily the informant could slice him up before his bodyguards could even draw their guns.

“Orihara-kun,” the old bastard greets, harlequin smile running tremors up Izaya’s spine, “Thank you for joining us.”

He doesn’t really know what to say, isn’t really sure why he’s joining Koizumi and his thugs at all, so he allows himself to grin, settling in as the driver closes the door.

“Of course,” he speaks, throat a little dry, “I presume it must be important if I’m not even allowed a day off, right?”

Koizumi laughs at that. He doesn’t seem to feel guilty in the least. Izaya isn’t surprised. This is all a big game; to exhaust him, to harass him, to throw him completely off of his game and see if he can still function. It’s a strange sensation, being tested as he has tested so many others before. He wishes he would have seen Koizumi’s very first greeting as the challenge that it actually was.

He wonders if he’d be enjoying a day off right now if he would have lied— _‘Oh, no, Koizumi-san. I’m just your run-of-the-mill informant!’_

“Orihara-kun, as much as I hate to ask this of you,” he starts, obviously not hating this at all, “I require your assistance with a very special job.”

 

* * *

 

  
Shizuo isn’t too sure what to do now that Izaya’s gone.

He hates to think that he was expecting to spend the morning together. Maybe they could have gone downstairs and enjoyed some breakfast in the café, watched some TV, or even sunbathed again. He feels a little gross just thinking about it, so he decides to brush his teeth and take a shower.

His reflection in the mirror looks abnormal as he brushes his teeth. He thinks it might be his eyes. He thinks he might have become an entirely different person. Will Tom-san and Celty even recognize him when he returns? Has this job changed him so much already? Are these changes a bad thing? Does he hate the face that looks back at him?

He really doesn’t know.

The water is perfectly warm as he starts the shower and he isn’t even surprised anymore. It will be Hell returning to the one he has at home, he decides. It might be the worst thing about this job ending.

He thinks about the feeling of Izaya’s blade against his throat last night and the night before. He thinks about the vulnerable edges of the informant’s glare. The louse was threatening him, but his heart was open then. There were no lies or tricks; Izaya was reaching out, desperate to understand whatever it is that’s going on between them. It was strange, watching the other man struggle with his emotions.

Izaya floats around in his thoughts for a long time: the stink of him, the feeling of the louse writhing beneath him, and the taste of sweat and skin and the salt of cum. The thought of it has his penis immediately standing erect, begging for attention after he’d denied himself anything last night.

It wasn’t difficult to stop, with the louse so wracked with convulsions like he’d never cum before in his life, but the memory of that skinny body below him makes him ache in ways that he never would have imagined were possible. He wants to call the louse tell him to come home. He wants to do such disgusting things to him that Izaya won’t ever be able to wash the filth of their sins from his skin.

His hair is sticking to his face beneath the spray of the showerhead. All of the dirt and oils from the night before slip away. He runs his fingers along length of his erection, the ghost of his touch allowing him to close his eyes and imagine the sight of Izaya in front of him—teasing him, harassing him, calling him names. He thinks of the louse with those dark, dark eyes half-lidded, face hot as he watched himself being sucked off. He thinks about those slender fingers in his hair, tugging weakly.

The shower tiles feel cool against his forehead as he leans forward, breath ragged as those light touches grow stronger, faster, and more desperate. He thinks of those little hiccups and hums that the louse let out, the noisy little tremors that rattled through him as he struggled to keep his composure.

And he cums with a shutter of breath and the thought of Izaya calling out his name.

When he leaves the shower, he changes into a pair of shorts and a plain t-shirt. He eats some ice cream and drinks another bottle of milk. He thinks about sunbathing or watching a movie alone, but none of that interests him in the least.

He decides to text Tom-san again, feeling a little guilty for being so brief with him yesterday.

 _‘Did you know who I was going to be partnered with?’_ He sends, and he thinks this might be the most words he’s ever texted to Tom-san before.

It takes awhile to get a reply and he flops down on the couch to wait. If he were home, he might be hanging out with Celty right now. He and Vorona might be traveling to a bakery or he might be visiting Akane at the dojo. Maybe he would have decided to have a meal at Russia Sushi. He might be catching up with Kadota and his little group of misfits.

_‘No, why would I know them?’_

It’s a relief to see that Tom-san didn’t set him up. He knew better, of course, but the words still reassure him, and maybe encourage him to take the plunge and come clean to someone _officially_ about what’s been going on.

_‘I think I might be dating them now.’_

His phone begins to ring almost immediately. When he picks up, he can hear Vorona rattling on about something in the background.

“Already?” Tom-san greets, laughter clear in his voice, “That really didn’t take long, did it? Who is she? Do we know her?”

His ears burn as he sits in silence, at a loss for words. He can hear Vorona becoming more aggressive with Tom-san and he wonders what has her so worked up.

“U-uh, well, we’re not really dating, I guess,” he sighs, running a free hand through his hair, “We’ve just messed around up until now. They’re determined that they hate my guts.”

Tom-san pauses and Shizuo can imagine the pensive look that is surely painting his features. His senpai has always been good at solving his problems with a level head. He might actually know what to do now.

“Please tell me that I don’t actually know them,” the other man says finally, sobered up as he lowers his voice to a near whisper, “You said _‘they’_ instead of _‘she’,_ and it’s fine if you swing that way, but… Shizuo, seriously. Do I know this guy?”

Shizuo is taken aback by the tone of Tom-san’s voice. He knows already. _How does he know already?_ How could he have _possibly_ expected for something this bizarre to happen?

“Um, not really,” he replies belatedly, fidgeting despite the fact that no one can even see him, “I guess maybe you’ve heard of him.”

Tom-san clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. He seems like the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he isn’t quite sure how they’ll come out.

“Okay Shizuo,” He says cautiously, “Don’t freak out if I’m wrong, but… It’s not Orihara, is it?”

_How the Hell did he figure it out?!_

Shizuo breathes hard at the thought. Tom-san gasps softly. There’s static on the line, as through the other man has dropped his phone and is struggling to keep it from hitting the ground.

“Yeah,” Shizuo huffs, pissed off even though Tom-san specifically asked him not to be, “It’s him.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s noisier in here than he would have expected. People push through, impatient and rude as they struggle to grab what they’re looking for. There’s a trashy pop song playing through the speakers overhead, fluorescent lights making everyone look a little bit like zombies as Izaya struggles to keep up with Koizumi and his posse of thugs.

“I understand why you’re wearing a disguise, _boss_ ,” he says as sarcastically as he can muster, noting the shabby wig and dark sunglasses than barely conceal the old man’s obvious identity, “but Fukayama has never even met me. Plus—“

They take a sharp turn around the corner as a group of security guards pass.

“Why am I the only one in drag?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ever done it, if he’s completely honest with himself. However, standing here in the middle of Fukayama’s gigantic clothing store, dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform and a shoulder length black wig, eyelashes feeling sticky with mascara, he can’t help but think that maybe Koizumi has just used this as a ruse to humiliate him.

“ _Hana-chan_ ,” Koizumi claps him on the back, laughing heartily as a couple of suspicious looking gentleman pass by, “Honey, of course Daddy will buy you a new skirt! Pick out anything you’d like!”

He’s enjoying this entirely too much. There’s no doubt about it.

He lowers his voice, words warm against Izaya’s ear, “If they catch you on the security cameras, you’ll blow your cover. Just find a way into that office, got it? Try not to get yourself caught.”

This is so stupid.

The air against his exposed thighs causes goosebumps to prickle along his skin. The knee-length stockings that Koizumi was simply determined to force on him keep sliding down. Green isn’t really his color and the wig is itchy. Plus, the lacy edges of these awful panties keep digging into his groin in a way that makes him feel particularly perverse.

Koizumi wants him to sneak through security and download Fukayama’s computer files on a flash drive. He’s not too sure what he’ll do from there, but he says that his work will continue long after Izaya and Shizuo return home. This is the prep work that will only make destroying Fukayama’s life easier once they leave.

Before he can slip away to get the job done, Koizumi steps forward, ghosting his fingers over his uniform-clad arm before whispering, _“Be discreet”_

And, of course, cupping Izaya’s ass in a way that is so heinous that it takes everything he has not to spin around and slit the old pervert’s throat. However, he’s a professional. He can do this. He flinches away, cheeks in fire. He sends the old man a dangerous glare over his shoulder before stumbling toward a door that reads _“employees only”_ in bold, red letters.

He pretends to be looking at a rack of t-shirts as security passes through. Koizumi told him that his usual mole has found himself _indisposed_ , and the way he’d said it had caused tremors to work their way along the back of Izaya’s neck. He just wants to get this over with and go home.

When the coast is clear, he inches toward the door. Koizumi and his group is nowhere to be found.

He pushes the door open noiselessly, peeking down the long hallway beyond before sneaking inside. There are no cameras in this hall at all. He wonders how Fukayama could be so careless. There are four doors along the hall, each labeled— _‘stock room’_ , _‘security’_ , _‘bathroom’_ , and _'office'_.

He makes his way to the door labeled ‘office’, pressing his ear against the wood. He can hear people inside. There are firecrackers and smoke bombs in his pocket that Koizumi slipped him on the ride over. He hates the noise, but there’s really no helping it. He wonders if Shizu-chan is thinking about him as he wanders over to the bathroom, pulling the fireworks out of his pocket and opening the door. He lights three of them each, tossing them in the room and closing the door.

He hops toward the stock room and hides inside, door cracked.

All three firecrackers pop loudly. It sounds like they might have activated the sprinklers. Security immediately runs from their office, frantic as they pull open the bathroom door and jolt back at the sight of smoke.

He takes this opportunity to slide into the security office, locking the door behind him.

His phone chirps, indicating a text. It’s Koizumi.

_‘Is there a copy machine in there? One of the big ones?’_

He looks around, spotting it next to a short row of computers.

 _‘Yes,’_ he replies, _‘what do I need to do?’_

He’s sitting down at one of the desks when Koizumi texts him back. He plugs one of his flash drives into the slot, waiting as it dumps some sort of program into the system which will allow him to log on without a password and find what he needs.

_‘I want you to pull up your skirt and sit on it. Bring me a copy of what it scans.’_

Ugh.

He shakes his head, scowling as he sticks his phone back in his jacket pocket and begins to look around on the computer. Koizumi’s rogue program detects whatever it’s looking for. He plugs in the other flash drive, ignoring the feeling of his phone vibrating as he counts down the seconds before he can leave.

When the program finishes, he pulls out both flash drives and sticks them in his pocket with his phone. It’s even smokier in the hall when he opens the door. So many people are running about that he slinks away easily. He’s out before anyone even notices.

They’re evacuating the store when he makes it back to the sale’s floor. Koizumi is still nowhere to be found, so he allows himself to be ushered out onto the sidewalk. He takes out his phone, looking around and spotting no familiar faces.

_‘Shizu-chan got to touch you yesterday, right? Are you still mad that poor Ota-san interrupted you?’_

He knew it. How annoying.

 _‘I’m outside.’_ He replies, ignoring everything else.

He doesn’t receive another text for a long time. He’s watching as the other shoppers leave, some of them scared, some annoyed, some trying to peer through the windows and spot what might have happened. Firetrucks cry somewhere in the distance. He almost feels bad for causing so much trouble, but he actually doesn’t. Fukayama has a lot more coming than a small disruption like this.

_‘We’ll meet you at the hotel.’_

He almost can’t comprehend those words, eyes wide as he stares down at his phone screen. The hotel is twenty minutes away. The roads are far too congested because of the police and firetrucks. There’s no way he could find a taxi or catch the bus.

Koizumi expects him to walk for twenty minutes in this ridiculous get up.

He sighs, long and strained. He tries to follow Shizuo’s example and count down in his head. There is nothing in his life that he regrets more than taking this job. There is nothing he wants more than to smother the oxygen from Koizumi’s lungs and laugh as the old pervert begs for his life.

He stuffs his hands in his pocket, headache forming right between his eyes as he begins his journey back to the hotel.

 

* * *

 

Shizuo is watching TV when there’s a knock on the door. He wonders if Izaya forgot his keys, or maybe Ota-san was so scarred yesterday that he’s sworn to never come in without knocking again.

He swings his legs off of the couch, padding to the door and unlocking it without even checking through the peep-hole. He’s surprised to find, standing in the doorway, peering down at him with small, black eyes—

“Koizumi-san,” he greets, bowing slightly as he backs away to let the older man in.

Two shorter men shuffle in after him, smaller than their boss, but with stares so sharp that they even make Shizuo a little nervous. Koizumi makes himself right at home on the couch while his men stand behind. Shizuo closes the door, making his way toward the group and sitting right across from them.

“What is it?” he asks, and Koizumi’s men look at him as though he’s said something wrong.

The older man simply laughs, stretching his arms out on the back of the couch.

“Orihara-kun seems to have wandered off,” he says casually, eying him in a way that he can’t quite comprehend, “I sent him to run some errands for me and I haven’t been able to reach him. I thought maybe we’d catch him if we waited here.”

It seems like he’s hiding something, but Shizuo brushes it off. Spending so much time around Izaya has made him paranoid, he thinks. The louse has a way of bringing out the worst in people even when he doesn’t mean to.

Although, it’s not like him to ditch out on a job. He should know better, having worked for the Awakusu for so many years.

Koizumi begins speaking with him about the job.

He says, “Orihara has been doing a lot of work in the background to ensure that this goes as smoothly as possible, so we would appreciate it if you would try your best.”

Something about those words make him uncomfortable, like he’s being threatened. Which, he probably is. He wonders how quickly he could take the three men out if he needed to. It’s a weird thought. He doesn’t usually plan these things. Izaya really is rubbing off on him.

Before he can stress about it too much, however, he can hear someone fiddling with the door. All eyes watch as it swings open to reveal in the threshold, sweaty and miserable, scowling ever-so-slightly with the very vaguest hints of color to his cheeks—

Orihara Izaya—er—well, maybe?

It definitely smells like Izaya. This smelly stranger is wearing some sort of school uniform, however, and Izaya has long since graduated. Plus, their school color was never green. Izaya’s hair is also completely different—short and choppy as opposed to a cute fringe at the shoulders.

And Izaya doesn’t wear makeup or skirts.

His legs might be nice, but this person, wearing dark stockings up to their knees, is on an entirely different level.

He finds that he’s at a sudden loss for words. There’s a mass in his throat that he can’t quite seem to swallow. This Izaya-imposter glowers over at him before fastening his mask securely in place, stepping into the room and smiling brightly at Koizumi-san.

“Oh, boss,” he sings, slamming the door behind him with unneeded force, “Thanks so much for the ride! I love walking love distances in the heat!”

His flea scent is so overwhelming that Shizuo covers his nose with a hand. His cheeks are so hot that he thinks he might burn himself. Through his fingers, his eyes travel from thin ankles to the very edge of that short, airy skirt. When Izaya moves about, he swears he can see hints of something lacy. The idea of it causes his heart to thump relentlessly within his ribcage. He makes a strangled noise, doubled over, hands obscuring his face. He’s not sure how he looks right now, but only that Izaya is fixing him with a stare that is impossible to read.

“Orihara-san,” Koizumi laughs, looking the informant up and down, “What’s with the getup? I told you to wear a disguise, but maybe a simple wig would have done the job? No need to break out the fetish-wear so early in the day.”

Izaya is indignant, that much slips through. His fists ball at his sides and his shoulders shake a little. Shizuo can barely even focus on just one part of his body—smooth, milky thighs, shapely calves, hips that only appear rounder in that damn shirt, those troublesome eyes of his—and it’s overwhelming to even try to understand what could possibly be upsetting the informant when he’s dressed in such a filthy outfit.

After a long, awkward pause, Izaya simply smiles. It’s a sarcastic look, a little too jerky and dramatic, but he shrugs, throwing something on the coffee table and tripping on his way to his bedroom. The flea-scent floats after him.

“Well, this was fun, Heiwajima-san,” Koizumi sighs, pulling himself to his feet, “It looks like Orihara-san brought the goods, so we’ll be seeing you around.”

He grabs whatever it is that Izaya threw down, turning to Shizuo and sending him a wink.

“That uniform looks a little tight,” he adds, bodyguards ushering him out the door, “You might want to help him take it off.”

The words cause a hot pressure to build in Shizuo’s stomach. Before he can react, the door in being closed and he finds himself sitting in the living room alone.

He can hear shuffling and quiet curses coming from Izaya's room. He wonders, skin prickling with something akin to excitement, if maybe Koizumi was right and the louse really does need his help.

 

* * *

 

 

This is the worst. The absolute worst.

He curses Koizumi with every fiber in his being, pulling weakly at the wig that seems to be glued to his scalp. It stings as his hair pulls beneath and he wonders how long he can handle wearing this stupid thing before he goes mad and cuts it off.

He can see his reflection in the mirror across the room. He looks ridiculous, and it’s horrifying to even think of what was going through Shizu-chan’s head as he stared at him from the couch. He looked like he was going to break something then, or maybe like he might faint. He can smell how sweaty the walk left him. He knows that’s why the brute was covering his nose.

How annoying.

There isn’t a warning knock before his door creaks open. He doesn’t even turn to glare at the brute, just keeps fiddling with the wig. He doesn’t have time to hide his embarrassment or try to force the monster out.

“You stink,” the beast says, but there’s something strange underlying his words.

Neither of them make a move toward the other, neither of them try to run away. Shizu-chan is watching him mess with the wig while he eyes the blond in the mirror. He’s pushing his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable as he sneaks little looks up and down Izaya’s legs.

“You’re a hypocrite, Shizu-chan,” Izaya sighs, sliding his fingers under the wig and struggling to push away the pins that attach the horrible thing to his hair, “you had such a fit when you thought I was staring at you at work, and now look at you.”

Shizuo doesn’t make a sound. He’s still staring, but his expression doesn’t change at all. He’s a predator, Izaya thinks, a fox watching chickens through thin wire cages.

“You’re wearing women’s underwear,” the brute says finally, and it takes everything the informant has not to whirl around and slice him open, “your skirt is too short.”

He pauses, turning finally to smile at the brute.

“Thank you, Shizu-chan,” he chirps, hoping that the sickening sweetness of his words will choke the idiot, “Perceptive as always. What would I possibly do without my observant monster pointing out all of the obvious things for me?”

He’s not surprised when the brute grabs him, but when the wig is pulled from him painlessly, he has to admit… Well, he wasn’t really expecting that.

Shizu-chan looks down at him, anger lining his features as he tosses the wig on the floor. They simply stare at each other, something thick and needy filling the space between. Izaya feels as though maybe they’re magnets—one moment they are pushing away relentlessly, and at times like this, he feels as though nothing can keep them apart. There are places on his body that ache with the need to relive last night already, but he tries to ignore them.

“Why are you parading around in front of other people like this?” the blond spits, brows low as the corners of his mouth twitch.

“As opposed to just dressing like this for you, correct?” he counters, feeling only a little bad about it.

The brute growls, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him forward. He’s expecting another kiss, definitely not eager for it at all. He’s expecting just about anything but for Shizuo to bury his face in the crook of his neck, but of course, he does.

The monster always defies his expectations. It’s so irritating.

Shizu-chan lets his hands wander and Izaya doesn’t stop him. There is nothing lecherous about his touches, as he ghosts his fingers over the bottom of his skirt, over his thighs, up his back, and coming to tangle in his hair.

His breathing is ragged with need. Izaya isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling. He can see the two of them in the mirror. The sight of them standing here, Shizu-chan’s arms wrapped around him as he simply stands still, it’s… obscene. He can’t look at their reflection for very long.

“Shizu-chan,” he breathes, resting his hands on the brute’s back, “What in the world is going on with you?”

He’s easily become aroused from the feeling of their skin touching, of Shizu-chan’s warm breath against the healing marks on his throat. The blond shudders, pulling him closer. He feels unguarded, allowing himself to be held by his enemy. He feels like a fool, wandering helplessly into the lair of a monster.

“I want to do things to you right now,” the brute whispers, “but for some reason, I don’t want to hurt you.”

He laughs at that even though Shizu-chan is clearly hurting. The idiot thinks that he is fragile. Has he forgotten about their past already? Has he deluded himself into thinking that Izaya is a helpless damsel just waiting for her prince to rescue her from himself, the wild beast?

“Please don’t do those things to me right now,” he says with a chuckle, pulling back to grin at the blond’s nervous face, “It’s still early in the day. It’s a little gross to do those sorts of things when it’s light outside, isn’t it?”

Shizu-chan’s ears are red. He lets his hands wander down to grip Izaya’s ass under his skirt, squeezing just a little too hard. Izaya hisses at him, tries to pry himself away.

“Who cares if it’s gross,” he beast spits, aggressiveness returning tenfold as Izaya whacks at him in a weak attempt to separate, “You’re fucking gross anyway. Look at what you’re wearing.”

He wants to argue, but Shizuo is on his knees in an instant. The look that the beast sends up to him has him rooted to the spot, erection tenting the front of his skirt in a way that makes him wish he could melt into the floor.

“Koizumi-san said you might need help changing,” Shizu-chan muses softly, unaware of the cold chill that runs through Izaya’s veins at the sound of the pervert’s name, “So I’ll help you.”

Izaya means to push him over when he rests his palms against the monster’s shoulders, but when Shizu-chan raises his skirt and eyes the way his cock strains against the insanely silky material of those horrible panties, he finds himself gripping to the blond for dear life instead.

There’s a storm brewing in his chest. He hates this, but he wants it. He loves Shizu-chan, maybe, but he still wants him dead.

Blond hair disappears under green fabric. He’s morbidly intrigued by the sight of it, but only for a moment. Shizuo’s tongue glides over the fabric that pulls over his weepy head. He shivers, making a noise in the back of his throat that he’s never heard himself make before.

“S-Shizu-chan—“he tries to say something, but Shizuo doesn’t reply. His mouth is too full pretty soon, and Izaya’s brain begins to fire electricity in every direction, making no contact with any neurons that might be able to help him make sense of any of this.

The monster doesn’t even have the decency to pull the panties down. When he feels that Izaya has become too strained, he simply slides them to the side, one hand squeezing Izaya’s ass in a way that makes his knees weak.

The movement of his head causes the skirt to flutter. This is so gross, Izaya manages to think, standing here in women’s clothing— _in the middle of the day_ —while a monster shamelessly fellates him. His phone vibrates inside of his jacket pocket, but he ignores it. Shizu-chan is doing something delicious with his tongue, taking his entirety down into his throat with no effort at all. He wonders if the brute has done this before.

He’d always assumed that Shizuo was a virgin, having never heard of the beast dating anyone or even meeting up for an affair, but—

The monster is sucking him off like a pro. He hates this so much. He despises the brute for always surprising him.

Shizu-chan makes a humming noise then, a moan, maybe. The feeling of it vibrating against the swollen head of his cock sends him right over the edge. He cums with a desperate intake of breath. He will not moan for the beast. He refuses.

He almost falls, saved only by Shizuo’s hands holding him. He's mortified when the monster pulls his head out from under the skirt and a single string of cum dribbles from his flushed lips. He catches it quickly with his tongue, not breaking eye-contact with the informant even once as he drags it back inside of his mouth and swallows.

Heiwajima Shizuo is going to kill him someday, he decides.

Not with a vending machine, not with that monstrous strength, but doing something just like this.

 

* * *

 

  
Shizuo thinks that maybe he should start keeping score.

They’ve messed around twice now and Izaya has yet to reciprocate. If this were a different relationship, he muses, he might feel insecure that he’s harassing someone who doesn’t want him, but this is Orihara Izaya, and he doesn’t care if the louse likes it or not.

They’re sitting outside of a café about thirty minutes away from the hotel. Izaya is ignoring him, nose buried in his phone. The louse still has mascara on his lashes, but the rest of the uniform is balled up on the floor in his room.

 _“Do you want to keep the panties?”_ the informant had teased, a steely edge to his smile.

The flea is eating like a normal person. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, Shizuo realizes. He wonders if he should be worried.

“Eat your food,” he louse speaks, not even looking up from his phone, “You were sure hungry earlier, so don’t waste your food.”

Shizuo shoots him a distasteful look, grumbling as he begins to pick at his lunch. He can stop being a spoiled brat at any time, really. He’s not sure why everything has to be an issue. Can’t they mess around without Izaya having a crisis every time? Could Izaya, maybe… touch him too? Is that too much to ask?

He chokes at the thought of it, suddenly unsure of if he’s ready for that sort of thing or not.

The feeling of the louse twitching above him was more than enough to overwhelm him earlier. His heart might not be able to take it if they move any further.

He watches as the waitresses take orders around them, as couples walk by, holding hands on the sidewalk. He wonders if he and Izaya could ever be like that before he can stop himself. It’s funny to imagine it: Their fingers laced together, Izaya’s smartass comments that only serve as a buffer for his obvious embarrassment, himself, surely so flustered that it takes everything he has not to fling the louse across the city.

However, his hand tingles with the need to feel the warmth of the flea’s fingers intertwined with his. He’s never held hands like that before. He wonders if it’s as nice as the movies make it seem.

He looks across the table at the louse, watching as he finishes off the last of his food and glowers down at his phone. He looks pretty regardless, the makeup around his eyes doing nothing but accentuate how nice they look. He’s not sure when he became the sort of person to lament about another person’s eyes, or why the flea’s have caught his attention in such a way.

Izaya looks to him then, finally setting his phone down.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He seems to be thinking about something, eyes narrowing only slightly as the two of them stare at each other.

“We should go see a movie,” he states at long last, “there’s a Romance playing today that people seem to like.”

Shizuo cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t really like movies. Izaya doesn’t really like movies. Neither of them are the type to watch Romances.

What exactly is he getting at?

The informant sighs, taking a sip of his drink.

“I’ve been ordered to go see this movie,” he says, as though it explains everything.

They end up at the theater anyway, nearly an hour later, Shizuo huffing impatiently as they wait in an impossibly long line.

He’s not really sure why Koizumi-san would order Izaya to go see a romantic movie. He thinks it might be a trick of some sort. Maybe Izaya just really wanted to see it and won’t admit it?

No, that’s probably wrong too.

The line begins moving and Izaya looks like he might bolt at any second. It’s too hot to be wearing a sweater, but Shizuo thinks that maybe it’s a comfort. He can’t remember seeing the louse in Ikebukuro very many times without that horrid jacket of his. He wonders if the louse feels naked when he doesn’t have pockets to shove his hands in.

Izaya orders their tickets. He’s smiling, flirting just a little, but the stiffness in his shoulders gives away his discomfort.

They don’t even stop for snacks. The flea is walking like Hell is on his heels. Shizuo takes a moment to thank his parents for giving him such long legs. He hopes somewhere in Ikebukuro, his mother’s ears are tingling and that she’s missing him too—even if only for a moment.

He takes long strides to match the louse’s hurried pace. They turn into a darkened room, noting the name of the film above: _The Torrid Affair of Two Icy Hearts._

It already sounds ridiculous.

Each row is completely packed with people. This is his least favorite kind of place. Izaya leads them to two open seats near the wall, shuffling in behind a young couple who can’t seem to keep their hands off of each other.

Previews begin to play right as he makes himself comfortable beside the louse, taking the first chance to steal the armrest while the other man is too distracted, scowling at nothing on the dark floor. He’s such a baby. They’re getting paid to see a movie together. So what if it’s stupid? It’s no less mundane than walking the streets of Tokyo in search of deadbeats who have defaulted on their loans. Surely, it is no less annoying than skimming through hours and hours of useless garbage on the Dollars message boards for any hint of juicy gossip.

He thinks maybe Izaya doesn’t know that he knows about that, but it’s not like it’s a big secret.

Most of the previews are for other romance movies. He wonders how many different scenes there can possibly be of a man pulling a crying woman into a kiss. These people have the sort of problems that seem incredibly foreign to him—She’s a wealthy businesswoman and he is but a poor chauffeur, or he’s a player and she is a cram school teacher—and he wonders if anyone in the room can watch these sorts of movies and really relate to them.

Although, he notes, sneaking a glance at Izaya as the louse silences his phone, a story about the two of them might be too bizarre to even put into words. Surely, no one would be able to understand it at all.

The movie begins with the long, low draw of a bow along violin strings. It opens with the vast expanse of trees along a winding road in autumn. A lone car travels the road, camera slowly zooming in to focus on the woman driving. She’s on the phone, arguing with someone about bills. Shizuo struggles to continue caring at all until a Semi Truck veers around a sharp corner and crashes into her.

Izaya sighs deeply. Such a drama queen. Shizuo finds himself worrying about the woman. Will she survive? Why introduce her just to kill her off? She has to be important somehow, right?

But she’s dead, he discovers only moments later. Her husband cries in the waiting room of the ER. They have children or pets or something that he’s forced to take care of alone.

He’s beginning to zone out when he feels Izaya’s hand on top of his. He pretends not to notice, afraid that the louse might decide to have another episode and brandish his knife in the middle of a crowded theater.

The informant laces their fingers together, slowly coming to rest his head on Shizuo’s shoulder. Well, at least this is nice, he thinks.

The thought alone makes his skin crawl.

Twenty minutes later, the man and a new woman are passionately making out in his living room. The man ushers the woman toward the couch, laying her down and climbing on top of her. The man kisses a trail down the woman’s stomach and the scene cuts to the euphoric expression on her face. This seems familiar somehow, but he isn’t sure why. He knows know he hasn't seen this before. Izaya stiffens immediately, sitting up completely straight in his seat.

It’s implied that the woman finishes violently, surely overcome with passion because the man is the best love-maker in the universe. Izaya stands abruptly, not saying a word as he shoves his way out to the isle and staggers up the rows and out to the hall.  

He’s not sure if he should go too.

What the Hell is the louse’s problem?

 _“I love you,”_ the man says, holding the woman close.

Shaking his head, he rises from his seat. Whatever is going on with Izaya has to be more entertaining than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late, of course! I've been busier somehow since Spring Break started than I was before. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is sort-of-kind-of dedicated to a long-time friend of mine named CJ who talked to me about how Sweet Discolor was their favorite Inumog doujin. Secretly, Izaya and Shizuo cross-dressing is a big, big kink of mine, so of course I needed to add it in! I hope it doesn't seem like it was forced in there! Time is running out for the job, so gradually, they'll start doing more "spy stuff". 
> 
> I'm sorry about the abrupt way that this chapter ended as well! I don't really have a very good excuse for that except that I had absolutely no idea of where to end it!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it regardless! Next chapter will be longer!


	7. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss to wake a sleeping prince. And a few more after, for good measure.

Izaya allows the bathroom door to slam behind him, not even taking the time to check if anyone else is around before he dials the pervert’s number. It rings four times, his nerves only building with each second that passes.

_“Orihara—“_

“I quit.”

There’s silence on the other line. Koizumi doesn’t seem to be laughing now, doesn’t have a clever joke up his sleeve for a situation like this. He revels in the power of this quiet. He feels that maybe it’s given him the upper hand.

“This film,” he forces out, hands shaking despite himself, “You forced us to see it because of the scene on the couch, correct? Because of what happened between me and Shizu-chan.”

Koizumi still refuses to speak. If not for the lull of his breath, Izaya might think that he’s hung up.

“Have you planted cameras in the hotel room?” his breathing is ragged, head aching, “Have you been watching us this entire time?”

He hates that he’s let himself get this worked up, but when he thinks of Shizuo touching him, of the way it had felt to allow someone to get so close to him (the way he had shaken, vulnerable while Shizu-chan had handled his heart so delicately), and Koizumi watching all of that, laughing at them—

He feels sick.

“Orihara-san,” the pervert speaks finally, “I was teasing you when I sent you to see the movie. You see, my girlfriend wants to see it and I thought maybe I would force you to tell me if it’s good or not. You have to understand, I am a clever man, but not even _I_ could orchestrate something so complicated. Although, I do look forward to watching this scene on the couch, so I can understand what exactly went down between you and Shizu-chan when Ota-san wasn’t around to tell me.”

He wants to feel the stab of humiliation stinging through his gut, or the shame of being wrong. He has a sense about these things, and not even Koizumi could lie to him. When he thinks about it, it really doesn’t make sense: the idea that Koizumi could pick out a movie that mirrored he and Shizu-chan’s passionate run-in last night so short-notice. He finds that all of this harassment has driven him a little bit crazy, has caused him to create enemies out of nothing, to see danger around every corner.

However, instead of focusing on any of this, his heart hammers for a completely separate reason. He finds that he can focus on nothing else.

“You,” he struggles to keep his voice even, “you have a girlfriend.”

Koizumi laughs then; a dark, horrible sound.

“I do,” he jeers, “but don’t you worry. There’s more than enough of me to go around.”

And Izaya hangs up on him.

What a disgusting human—the most deplorable human, really. He is the ugly stain on humanity that Izaya finds that he struggles to love. He is surely level with the horrible mole on Kyou-chan’s date’s face. He wonders if it would be okay to remove him too.

But… there’s another human out there, somewhere, who looks to him as someone worthy of loving. He can’t quite wrap his head around it. Why is Koizumi even bothering him if he already has someone? Would she be angry if she found out? Does he not understand that it’s Izaya’s specialty to find these tiny weaknesses and prod them?

“Izaya?” a familiar voice calls, creaking open the bathroom door before he can even compose himself.

Shizu-chan looks concerned. It’s an odd look for him and Izaya isn’t sure how comfortable he is knowing that such an expression is just for him.

“Everything is fine,” he sighs, smoothing out his sweater as he turns to smile at the brute, “Just feeling a little sick.”

It’s not a lie, but Shizuo looks doubtful regardless.

“We’ve seen enough of the movie,” the brute replies, glancing around the bathroom, “The new girl has some kind of dark secret and you know the guy is going to stay with her anyway.”

Izaya wonders if he even thought that the couch scene was familiar. It sure doesn't seem like it. He’s acting like Izaya is being neurotic, like he’s worried about him. He’s acting like he’s the responsible one, but the thought of that alone is laughable.

“So you want to go home then,” he smirks, tilting his head and lowering his lashes, “why so eager to get back to the hotel, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo doesn’t reply, simply grabs him by the hand and drags him all the way through the building and out into the street. Workers and customers alike seem concerned, but something about the look on Shizu-chan’s face keeps them from actually doing anything. Izaya thinks that humans can still sense the monstrous blood that courses through his veins. He might think that he can hide it, but this aura of a violent, dangerous beast will follow him all the way to the grave.

Even as they’re walking home, Shizu-chan still hasn’t let go of his hand. The sun is setting behind the blackened tops of buildings. Cars are just now beginning to turn on their headlights. He looks to the blond to make a comment, but there is color splashed along his cheeks. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard. He won’t look up from the ground.

Is he… embarrassed? Because they’re holding hands?

What an idiot.

He doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t understand why. He’s going to defeat this monster one day, tear him to ribbons and burn that tiger’s skin. He can’t comprehend why the thought of doing so fills him with more dread than joy.

The walk is peaceful once Shizu-chan finally slows down. They’re receiving a lot of weird stares. Shizuo probably doesn’t even notice anymore, since he’s been stared at his entire life, but for someone like Izaya, who is so much more comfortable huddled in the backdrop, it’s a little discomforting.

“Hey, Shizu-chan,” he calls out softly, matching the protozoan’s stride only barely, “We should order a pay-per-view movie when we get back. Maybe room service too.”

He can already imagine ordering a nice plate of lobster and throwing it in the garbage. He can already feel himself falling asleep to the most expensive movie they can find. He considers scheduling a spa day, but the idea of being touched like that doesn’t seem worth it. Plus, Shizu-chan would probably ruin everything anyway.

He wonders if Koizumi’s girlfriend will see the hotel bills and start to get jealous. If he can find her, surely she would be overjoyed to see the texts that her boyfriend has been sending to another man.

The hotel comes into view and Shizuo still doesn’t let go of his hand. The doorman struggles to keep a straight face as he bows and lets them in.

But Shizuo still doesn’t let go.

Even as they make it into the room, closing the door softly behind them as maids crane their necks to see, they’re still holding hands.

Suddenly, this is too much. He wants nothing more than to wrap himself up in a cocoon of blankets and go to bed.

After a series of tortuous minutes in which he can feel, painfully, each of the beast's fingers wrapped around his own, Shizu-chan lets him go. He stands there, hand suddenly feeling a little empty and cold, as the blond flops down on the couch and fetches the remote from the coffee table.

“You wanted to order a movie?” He asks, brow raised.

And Izaya despises him, even more so than before. He’s not allowed to be casual, to pretend that none of this is a big deal. He’s even worse than Koizumi, even worse than Shiki and Shinra and every other piece of garbage who has taunted him this entire mission long.

“Yeah,” he draws out, sitting as far down the couch as he can, hands in his lap, “Something expensive.”

Shizuo fixes him with a look, but says nothing. He begins to flip through the titles. The expensive ones are mostly pornos, but neither of them comment on it.

When they finally find a movie, it’s some sort of silly horror. Shizuo looks bored from the very beginning. If it doesn’t have his brother in it, Izaya decides, he must not be interested. Their relationship makes him terribly uncomfortable, but he tries not to think about it. Will Kasuka become jealous and try to steal his brother away when they come home?

Shaking his head, he masks a scowl. How appalling.

 

* * *

 

  
He wakes up in the morning to the feeling of hands on his face.

His eyes feel like they’ve been weighed down by bricks and his neck is stiff. The last thing he remembers is starting that awful scary movie, then… He must have fallen asleep.

Before he can even comprehend the feeling of those cool fingers on his cheeks, something softer and warmer is pressing against his lips. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of another person straddling his lap.

“Whatthefuckareyoudoing,” he struggles to push out the words between their lips, eyes creeping open to gaze into the deep, chocolate pools that he thinks it might be too early in the morning to be thinking about.

Izaya smirks down at him, pulling back and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Shizu-chan doesn’t like being kissed against his will, huh,” he croons, planting his ass right between Shizuo’s thighs in a way that causes heat to swell right in the pit of his abdomen, “I was trying to wake the beast from a deep slumber. Work starts in an hour.”

He considers throwing the louse on the floor again and rushing to the bathroom. Instead, he scoops the idiot up as he stands, hands under his backside like he’s carrying a child, and carries him into the bathroom. Izaya struggles and begins to tell him off, but the louse's arms still wrap securely around his neck.

“Shizu-chan,” he cries, flinching as his back is pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom wall, head against the mirror as his ass rests on the edge of the sink, “I already took a bath.”

Shizuo glowers at him for a moment, noting the light hints of color that stain his cheeks. There are still tiny marks beneath the collar of his shirt which expose themselves when he moves in just the right way. The thought of Tomoko-san and the office girls asking about those marks fills him with something that he decides must be excitement. He can definitely feel it in his groin.

He kisses the louse then, setting him down on the sink fully and resting his hands on the other man’s hips.

“You’re wrong,” he huffs, leaning back just far enough that he can look into Izaya’s eyes, “I liked being kissed.”

Izaya looks at him like he’s insulted. He seems like he might bolt. Shizuo holds him down, kissing him a little more for good measure. They don’t actually have time for this at all, but Tomoko-san will understand if they say the bus was running late. She might even take one look at Izaya’s hickies and decide not to comment at all.

“S-Shizu-chan,” Izaya breathes, shaking slightly, an obvious tent in his pants, “cut it out.”

He obliges only because he knows that Izaya will end up ignoring him tonight if they’re late. It’s not worth it. He leaves one last kiss on the informant’s lips before he pulls away.

“Be ready tonight,” he huffs, tugging his shirt over his head and ignoring Izaya’s squawk of terror, “Don’t think that I’m going to let you get out of this so easily.”

He turns the shower on, throwing the flea a look over his shoulder. The idiot doesn’t seem like he’s planning on going anywhere. This might be some sort of challenge, a battle of wills, but he thinks Izaya might actually just not notice the cue for him to leave. His eyes are burning tiny trails along Shizuo’s skin.

Well, whatever. The louse can watch if he wants.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re on the bus in time, miraculously. Shizu-chan had undressed in front of him today, showered and brushed his teeth without even wrapping a towel around his waist. He’d wandered around naked for such an extended amount of time that Izaya had really wondered if the brute was actually a nudist.

 _“You’re sure staring a lot for someone who hates my guts_ ,” the monster had drawn out, stern lines of a frown making poor work of masking his amusement.

And Izaya had left him alone then, slamming the door behind him and waiting in the living room until he’d finally wandered out.

Shizu-chan is texting someone. If he cranes his neck, he can spy on what the brute is saying, but the conversation is lost on him. He’s talking to his boss about someone. His boss is telling him to be careful and he's giving a lot of short answers. 

The boss says, _“It’s not like it was a big secret. Simon and I had a bet going, actually.”_

Shizu-chan replies, _“A bet? Tom-san, I don’t understand.”_

To which the boss answers, _“You guys have been chasing each other around like cats and dogs for almost a decade now, but Orihara looks at you like you’re a big bowl of milk.”_

He sits a little straighter in his seat, clearing his throat as Shizu-chan takes his time typing out a reply. He’s going to find the biggest piece of dirt he can on this Tanaka Tom when he gets home. He’ll expose him to the world and this man will know better than to imply such disgusting things about him ever again.

What a joke! _He’s_ been staring at _Shizu-chan_? Absolutely not. He messes with the brute because he’s a monster who should not be allowed to mingle with humanity and there is nothing more to it. If Simon and the blond’s moronic friend think that it’s anything other than that, then they’re both perverts who should consider seeking counseling. It’s not healthy to see things when they aren’t there.

The bus comes to a stop and he stands a little too quickly. Shizu-chan shoots him a curious look, but says nothing of it.

They’re walking toward _Tomoko’s,_ chatting idly about work. Shizu-chan tells him to be nice to Bunko-san. He’s almost completely forgotten about it by now, but the memory causes an ugly feeling to curl inside of his heart. He’s not sure if he can resist messing with her today.

“Hayashi-kun, Maki-kun,” Tomoko greets as they enter the restaurant, her arms full of boxes that Shizu-chan immediately moves forward to grab, “We have a huge order today! I’m so sorry, Maki-kun, but would you mind helping us carry things out to the van?”

He tells her, of course not, Boss. She smiles and Shizu-chan stifles a scowl.

They’re immediately led back into the kitchen. He’s only been here once or twice to grab lunch, and he’s a little surprised when a few of the cooks glare at him. They greet Shizu-chan like they’re old friends. He wonders what the brute has told them to get them on his side.

Shizu-chan begins to carry a large load. He opts to grab something much smaller, what with the absence of inhuman strength. The cooks are setting out food as quickly as they can carry it, and the van is almost stuffed full within the hour. Tomoko wipes sweat from her forehead, sliding one last container as far back in the van as she can squeeze it.

“Family reunion,” she heaves, taking Shizu-chan’s offered hand as leverage as she climbs down to the ground, “Three-hundred people.”

Shizuo pulls the door down the cover the food, locking it in place. He seems completely in his niche here, as though he’s melded into the daily ups and downs of this job automatically. Tomoko pulls a set of keys from her pocket, smiling brightly at the two of them.

“It’ll be a little crammed,” she chirps, so much more chipper about this ordeal than Izaya thinks she should be, “but will you come too, Maki-kun?”

He forces a grin.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

Izaya’s bony hips are stabbing into his side. The louse can hardly even fit without practically sitting in his lap, but of course the idiot refused to cut to the chase and just do that instead. Tomoko-san had looked mortified when he’d offered _—“Just sit in my lap. It’ll be more comfortable.”—_ and Izaya had taken a certain kind of pleasure in rubbing that in.

Tomoko-san is telling them about her weekend. She and her boyfriend had went shopping. They’d walked their dog, watched a movie together. 

“Oh, I heard you and Bunko-san went on a date, Hayashi-kun,” she says suddenly.

He doesn’t miss the way that Izaya tenses.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” he replies, feeling a little hot around the ears, “We just went for lunch. She wanted to talk to me about some things. It wasn’t really a date.”

The flea isn’t looking at him. He’s watching the road roll by through the window, eyes rocky as his fingers grip tightly at the windowsill to keep him steady; halfway on Shizuo’s leg and halfway in the seat, squeezed in like a sardine in a tin can.

“I thought so,” Tomoko-san says, thoughtful, “Chiyo-san is the one who talks about you the most, but she’s engaged. I think Kyou-san and Bunko-san are more _‘Team Maki-kun’_.”

Izaya laughs at that, a hollow sound, like he wants to remind the two of them that he’s here. Tomoko-san doesn’t seem to notice.

“It looks like you had a good weekend too, Maki-kun,” she notes, cheeks fiery as she ghosts a hand along her collarbone, “Do I need to buy you a turtleneck work shirt?”

Shizuo can feel his own cheeks reddening, but Izaya barely budges at all. He smiles serenely, cocking his head to face Tomoko-san.

“My apologies,” he says, voice dripping with sugar, “Shizu-chan got a little carried away. She doesn’t understand when to stop sometimes.”

He glares at the louse, elbowing him a bit for good measure. The van pulls into the long parking lot of a banquet center. There are gaudy decorations hanging around, a sign with the family’s name flapping in the light breeze. They pull around to the back.

“So the two of you are together now?” Tomoko-san asks, turning off the van and pulling the keys from the ignition.

Izaya doesn’t answer until they’ve all climbed out of the car and he’s wiping the winkles from his clothes.

“Not really,” he draws out, eyeing Shizuo as he opens the trunk door and raises it up, “I think she’s just lonely and I’m available.”

He turns to look at the louse, but he’s locked himself up behind so many masks that he’s unreadable. He finds that it’s hard not to shake him by the shoulders at yell at him for being so dramatic. Lonely? When did he ever tell the idiot that he was lonely? Does the flea really think he would be so desperate for attention that he would start fucking his enemy just to fill that void?

He’s not that pathetic. He might be a coward and a monster, but he doesn’t use people like that.

“You’re an idiot,” he growls, grabbing a stack of food containers from the van as Tomoko-san shuffles awkwardly to open the back door of the center, “You think she’s taking advantage of you?”

And he can tell that Izaya is shocked even if Tomoko-san can’t. She’s gotten the door open and the louse is straggling behind with an armful of food. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes give him away.

“If she’s messing with you, it’s because she wants to be with you,” Shizuo continues, a little embarrassed, even though he knows that there’s a secret language between them that no one else can understand, “Who the Hell knows why, but she likes you.”

Tomoko-san is making an odd, strangled noise as she leads them to the table. She’s inhumanly flustered, so red that she looks as though she might explode. Izaya isn’t much better, even though he’s doing a good job of hiding it.

He wonders why everyone is such a drama queen.

“That might be,” the louse says finally, setting down his share of food, eyes drawing lines along the floor, “But Shizu-chan is so stupid that sometimes she doesn’t even understand what she wants.”

He’s not even sure what that’s supposed to mean. Before he can argue, however, Tomoko-san pipes up.

“U-uh, Maki-kun,” she says shakily, wringing her hands, “I think what Hayashi-kun is trying to say is—um, well. I think he’s trying to tell you not to sell yourself short! Any girl would be lucky to have you! You’re so kind and thoughtful. You’re always thinking of others and putting their needs before your own.”

Shizuo can’t even stop himself from laughing. He snorts at first, coughs in a weak attempt at hiding it, but it spills out of him eventually. He can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. His stomach strains with the force of his amusement.

Izaya begins to laugh too. Tomoko-san is the only one who doesn’t understand what’s going on or why what she’s said is funny. She looks a little offended, and she’s the only one. At the very least, Shizuo notes while he struggles to control himself, the sneaky bastard is self-aware.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says eventually as he catches his breath, “I don’t know where that came from.”

Tomoko-san eyes the both of them suspiciously. She knows more than she’s letting on, he’s sure, as do the rest of the girls. He hopes they can keep from blowing their cover at least until the banquet is over.

After that, he muses, everyone can see the louse for the scumbag he really is.

 

* * *

 

 

Shizu-chan is doing an amazing job of keeping his temper in check. If he continues to act so human, Izaya muses, he might just fool the informant himself into believing so.

He really doesn’t know how he feels about this development: Shizu-chan becoming a monster who isn’t really a monster, but a terrifyingly inhuman person.

Is Izaya obligated to love him? Or does he have a choice? Could Shizu-chan be a quirk of humanity’s that he could either ignore, or… embrace?

He clicks his tongue, stirring a bowl of soup in the warmer and watching the blond as he talks with a few patrons of the reunion. An old woman is telling him about her hip surgery. She keeps telling him that he looks familiar. She tells him that he shouldn’t fry his hair with dye, and continues to push the idea that the brute has cheapened his good looks somehow by doing so.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks, voice an echo of phlegm in her throat. An ugly, strangled sound that barely passes for spoken word.

Shizuo stares at her for a moment, knuckled white around the spoon in his hand. She won’t tell the protozoan if she wants rice, noodles, or both. She’s holding up the line.

“Uh, yeah, I do,” he says finally, and Izaya almost drops the ladle into the soup.

He’s such a moron.

The old woman seems happy enough to hear it, but she tells him that his girlfriend would probably like him better if he didn’t ruin his hair. There’s something in the brute’s nod that seems a little wounded, and Izaya despises the thought of something so simple hurting Shizuo’s feelings. He’s seen the photos Shinra has of the moron when he was in grade school—that curly, chocolate-brown mane that got him bullied by his classmates.

 _“He was a little sensitive about his hair back then,”_ Shinra had laughed, fingers creasing the glossy photograph of an injured, bedridden Shizuo and a younger, smiling version of himself, _“But he was sensitive about a lot of things. That’s why he would get so angry. I know it seems like he has a bad temper, but a lot of times when he’s throwing these tantrums, he’s actually just gotten his feelings hurt.”_

An old man asks him for a bowl of soup and he smiles, friendly as he can be, as he obliges.

 _“So you should be nicer to him,”_ the doctor had added, allowing Celty to pull the photograph from his hands and stare down at it silently, _“Someone he met in middle school was nice to him regardless of his reputation and he beat up dozens of people who tried to mess with the guy. Shizuo might be a lot of things, but no one can ever say that he isn’t loyal.”_

He wonders how different things would have been if he’d been nice. It would have been impossible that first day, with Shinra doing nothing but riling both of them up, interjecting at the very worst time, but what if he’d told the moron, _“Not right now. He’s boiling with rage”?_

He imagines approaching the monster after class and offering him a bandage or a cup of pudding from lunch. Shizuo always seemed like he couldn’t eat enough. By the time they’d met, he was beyond breaking bones every other day, but he'd seemed perpetually littered with scrapes and bruises. Izaya might have helped up the numbers, but Shizuo had never been without a bounty on his head.

It’s a little sad, now that he thinks about it. Shizu-chan has always been a little shy: a quiet force nervously pressing its way through throngs of fearful classmates, a soft-spoken man struggling to live a normal life among hundreds of people who want him dead. He thinks, if he could really allow himself to feel the full spectrum of empathy, his heartstrings might tug for the brute.

He refuses to acknowledge that the ache in his chest is anything similar.

Tomoko is speaking with the family. She looks nervous, and he wonders how often she actually does this sort of thing. Shizu-chan told him that they usually don’t stick around. Most of their customers prefer a buffet and not much else, and usually there isn’t a need for so much food. Fukayama really did her a favor. He isn’t really sure how he found her business, or why he decided to overwhelm her with so much attention.

He wonders, a sick joy swimming in his heart, if she’ll be ruined when Fukayama’s true character is revealed. What will she do then?

Shizu-chan is too distracting, however, shuffling awkwardly in his apron and funny little hat. He can’t focus on Tomoko at all. He tells himself that he’ll think about her later. The blond is being flirted with, even if he doesn’t realize it, by a skinny girl with long hair, pulled up in a messy bun.

“Do they let you eat too?” she asks, nibbling on her spoon in a way that makes Izaya want to snatch it out of her hands, “Are you hungry right now?”

Shizu-chan, bless his innocent monster heart, tips his head to the side. He’s clearly uncomfortable, but surely for the wrong reasons. Izaya wonders how the same man could have sucked him off twice now. He can’t even fathom how this very same Shizuo had the gall to hold him down and ravish him without a single, nervous pause.

“Uh, well, my lunch break is coming up soon,” he says, which is the absolute wrong thing to say, Izaya decides. The girl’s eyes light up with something akin to arousal. She cocks her hips sideways, arching her back to push forward her breasts.

“Oh, well, if you want to eat—“

“Shiz—H-Hayashi-kun,” Izaya stumbles over his words, head light with baffling rage, “Could you grab me some more menma? We’re running low.”

The remainder of the menma is hurriedly being stirred in with the soup, but neither Shizu-chan nor the slutty girl know this. The blond looks at him as though he’s relieved, and Izaya relishes the sight of it, even if he tries to convince himself that he really doesn’t care. Even if he might tell himself, on the contrary, he’s disappointed that he couldn’t pull the brute away from a love connection that the idiot might have wanted.

The girl glares at him as she passes by.

 _‘Go ahead, silly girl,’_ he thinks, smiling at her sweetly, _‘No Shizu-chan for you tonight.’_

Shizuo is back a moment later with a fresh bowl. He doesn’t say anything, but he brushes against Izaya in a way that seems perfectly avoidable.

Izaya doesn’t look at him, but his heart flutters regardless.

The next few hours pass slowly. People eat, they come back for seconds, then thirds. Tomoko looks as though she might keel over any second, she’s so tired. She hasn’t taken a break since they got here. Shizu-chan has only broken a few utensils, but no seems to have noticed. Izaya took the liberty of hiding each of them in an empty food container. He’ll dispose of them before they leave so Tomoko won’t find out, and he doesn’t miss Shizu-chan’s appreciative smile when he says this.

He thinks that maybe he should just walk them over to Tomoko and tell her, but he doesn’t—for some reason.

When they’re given the _“okay”_ to clean up, they do so slowly, tiredly. Tomoko moves to help, but Shizu-chan stops her.

“Go take a break,” Izaya orders, knowing that the brute won’t be able to say the right thing even if he tries, “You look tired.”

She doesn’t argue, just thanks them and drags herself into the back room, away from all of their customers.

“She works too hard,” Shizuo speaks quietly, stacking the empty plates, “She’s going to kill herself one day.”

Izaya laughs at that even though it isn’t a joke. She’ll kill herself at Fukayama’s banquet, he thinks. It will be so much bigger than this. She’d better plan on enlisting more of the staff.

They talk casually as they pack up all of the food, the dirty dinnerware, the serving tables, and everything else. No one bothers them, and Izaya finds that he might actually be enjoying himself. Shizu-chan laughs at one of his jokes. He hates the way that his heart flutters because of it. Tomoko is drinking a bottle of water on the back of the truck as they begin to carry their things through the back door.

“Both of you deserve a raise,” she sighs, cracking her back before hopping down to let them slide a stack of tables inside, “I’m giving you a raise as soon as we get back.”

Shizu-chan objects immediately, flustered beyond belief.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to give people raises on their second week,” he says, table rattling around in his impossibly strong grip, “The office girls would kill us if we let you do that.”

She chuckles and agrees, telling them that they can bring home whichever leftovers they want—it’s the least she can do. It’s three hours after their shift usually ends, and Izaya feels the weight of exhaustion creeping over him. He hasn’t worked this hard in months.

The ride home is pleasantly quiet. He climbs wordlessly into Shizu-chan’s lap and no one comments on it. He rests the back of his head on the brute’s shoulder, enjoys the feeling of their heat mingling. He might just fall asleep.

“So Hayashi-kun,” Tomoko says halfway through their trip, “I heard you say that you have a girlfriend. Was that a lie? Nice save by the way, Maki-kun.”

She’s giggling, resembling a schoolgirl ogling her favorite idols, but Izaya doesn’t say a word. He can feel Shizu-chan vibrating nervously beneath him. He wonders how the two of them look to someone like Tomoko, who seems to have no idea of what’s going on. She thinks that they both have girlfriends, but he’s sitting on Shizuo’s lap like it’s nothing. They bring each other lunch, laugh at jokes that only the two of them understand. The concept of them both—Hayashi and Maki—must cause such a stir of confusion among so many chatty women.

“Ah, well, uh,” Shizuo sputters, fingers pressing lightly into Izaya’s sides as they make a sharp turn, “I’ve been… seeing someone casually, I guess. I’m not really sure what’s going on.”

Tomoko seems overjoyed. She cares a little too much for her own good. Does she talk to her boyfriend about them when she returns home at night? Is he sick of hearing about these two younger men who she works with? Will Shizu-chan need to fight this angry man off if he shows up at their work one day?

“What’s her name?” she asks, a little too eagerly.

Shizu-chan stares at her blankly. He has zero creativity. It’s almost fun to watch him squirm, but he’s blowing their cover further and further by the second.

“It’s Kanra-chan,” Izaya interjects suddenly, causing the brute to flinch beneath him, “Mutual friend of ours.”

Shizuo agrees regardless, surely thankful that Izaya has stolen the attention away from him.

“Did you introduce them?” Tomoko questions, suddenly seeming doubtful.

He nods, plastering on a grin as he struggles to ignore the fact that Shizuo still hasn’t moved his hands, even as _Tomoko’s_ is coming into view.

“Sort of,” Izaya lies easily, “We’ve known each other for some time now. Hayashi-kun came over last week to do some laundry while she was visiting. You really hit it off in the laundry room, didn’t you, Hayashi-kun?”

Shizuo grumbles, but nods. Their warmth suddenly becomes scalding hot. The brute might be angry, might want to crush his skull, but it’s far more likely that he simply wants to sink as far into the seat as he can.

Tomoko continues to pester them as they park and unload the truck. Shizu-chan grabs some cake to bring home. Izaya takes whatever he can find, as Tomoko refuses to let him leave without something.

They’re done in about an hour and a half. The dishes are cleaned, the spare food is packed up and put away for everyone’s lunch tomorrow. It’s a little strange, standing in the darkened rooms of their empty work building. It feels a little too spacious, too quiet without the laughter of the office girls and the loud arguing of the kitchen staff.

“Do you guys need a ride?” Tomoko asks as she locks the door, “It’s too late to catch a bus, isn’t it?”

They tell her that they’ll be fine, even though the walk is a daunting task that neither of them are looking forward to. It won’t do if they’re outed just because of their own laziness. Tomoko really wouldn’t understand how they could afford to stay at such a nice hotel, and surely she wouldn’t agree to dropping them off together at some random street corner blocks away.

She squabbles with them about it for a minute, but sighs in resignation eventually.

With a wave, and a chipper _‘See you tomorrow!’_ she trudges around the corner to find her car.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been a long day, but the walk home is nice.

Izaya reeks of flea-scent, but he finds that not even that can dampen his mood. The louse is nearly skipping next to him, humming another fabricated tune as he swings his arms at his side.

“Who is Kanra-chan?” he asks as the hotel appears, a sparkling dot at the furthest reaches of his vision, “Is that a real person?”

Izaya blinks at him. He seems taken aback by the question, like he’s surprised that he doesn’t know. Then, he giggles, a grating sound that Shizuo wishes he could choke right out of his throat.

“That’s my Dollars handle,” he says simply, an undeniable hint of embarrassment etched into crack in his tone. He thinks he can hide everything, but he’s more transparent than anyone Shizuo has ever met.

Once one figures out his formula of deception—laugh to mask embarrassment, sneer to mask hurt, straight-faced and serious means that he lying or laughing at you—it’s not hard to read him.

“So you’re dating Shizu-chan and I’m dating Kanra-chan,” he draws out slowly, running a hand through his hair, “That’s really smooth, flea.”

Izaya sticks his tongue out, making a childish jeering sound as they approach the doorman. It’s a different guy tonight, and Shizuo finds that he’s thankful for the break from awkward greetings and that knowing stare. He bows as the man pulls open the door for them and he almost forgets that he’s not supposed to do that. The guy looks positively shocked.

When they step off of the elevator, the maids greet them. He nods, wishing them a good night bashfully, and Izaya sighs. The louse can kiss his ass, really. It wasn’t so long ago that he was working a job just like this. He can still remember how much the customers pissed him off.

They don’t say much as they enter the suite. Izaya heads straight for his room, not closing the door all the way behind him. Shizuo isn’t sure what that implies, but he sits on the couch and begins to flip through the channels.

He settles on a comedy as Izaya slips back into the room. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt that almost entirely covers the shorts he’s donned underneath. He really can’t understand why the louse is so determined to show off his legs. It’s inappropriate. A man shouldn’t prance around in something so obscenely revealing.

The flea settles in right beside him, making a rude comment about his taste in movies.

“You know, Shizu-chan,” he hums, running a hand over the edge of those too-damn-short-shorts, “It would probably be a lot more comfortable watching this in one of our rooms.”

He almost agrees, but pauses. The louse’s voice sounds velvety soft. Even though he won’t let Shizuo catch his eye, there’s something floating around in that absent-minded stare that makes the blond wonder—

_‘Is he trying to seduce me?’_

And, of course, they’re both huddled together on Izaya’s smelly bed before he knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this chapter is actually longer or not, but this was another 'Where the Hell do I end this?' situation! I had a lot of writer's block all through Spring Break and didn't get nearly as much writing done as I thought I would, but now that it's over, of course my inspiration has come back tenfold!
> 
> I think it might be obvious how much I adore Tom. He's one of my favorites because of how level-headed he is. I really like imagining how he would react to a Shizaya relationship because he would probably just look back and think, 'Oh, well, I guess that makes sense then... In a Shizuo sort of way.' And of course Shinra comes out looking like some sort of guru again, but I like to think that since he's their good friend, he would be able to read them very well. And I think Shinra is kind of stupid about relationships because he's so wrapped up in Celty, so he would probably just say really personal things like that and wouldn't even realize that he wasn't supposed to until Celty smacked him later and typed out, "Why would you do that?! That's private information!"
> 
> A user called centipatch mentioned liking Izaya-cat comparisons, so I really hope that you appreciated that little "cat and milk" comment! I was absolutely thinking of you! (I think of all of you a lot, actually! It's tons of fun considering the way that you guys will react when I write certain things. If you read something and think that it might have been written because of a comment you made, it probably was.)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading this chapter! I'll be seeing you guys on Tuesday, hopefully! 
> 
> (Also, is anyone disappointed that Koizumi has a girlfriend? I know how popular he is... haha!)


	8. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is but a series of uncomfortable and humiliating moments between birth and death.

Izaya struggles to breathe.

There’s a weight on his chest that won’t budge. He feels as though he’s been tied down. He can’t wiggle his arms, kick his legs. His eyes feel heavy with exhaustion, but his alarm is blaring somewhere to his left.

He can’t even reach it to turn it off.

The force on top of him shifts, hissing a curse. When his lashes part and the world around him comes into focus, there’s a shirtless Shizu-chan fiddling with something on the nightstand, straddling his waist.

They didn’t have sex last night, he reminds himself, heaving a sigh as his lungs discover that they’re finally free. They didn’t even mess around. He doesn’t recall why Shizu-chan took off his shirt, but he really can’t complain about the view. As far as he’s concerned, the brute can parade around like this all day.

“Hey, louse,” Shizuo grunts, setting Izaya’s phone down after he deactivates the alarm, “You want the first shower?”

He catches himself staring for just a little too long. Shizu-chan seems to notice as well.

“Fine,” the blond huffs, pulling himself from the bed, “I’m going then.”

He doesn’t argue even though he wants to. The image of Shizu-chan slick with soap in a steamy bathroom won’t allow itself to be ignored.

Koizumi hasn’t texted him since before he sent them to the movie theater. He wonders if his outburst scared the old pervert off. Just as he’s enjoying the freedom, however, his phone buzzes.

He looks around. The bastard wouldn’t actually put cameras in the hotel, would he…?

_‘I take it that your little tantrum is finished.’_

Well, it’s not the worst thing he was expecting, but it stings. He hates to even think about how hysteric he must have sounded on the phone.

_‘My apologies, but you really did deserve it.’_

Shizu-chan left his door open and he can hear the shower running from the bathroom. He tries not to dwell on the thought of what he’s doing in there. Just normal shower things, he tells himself. Normal, naked, wet… shower… things…

His phone dings, and he finds himself dreading what it will say more than he prefers to admit.

_‘I saw that movie, by the way. My girlfriend loved it. I have to say, the couch scene was fantastic.’_

He groans inwardly, fidgeting a little at the mere thought of it. Before he can even fathom what to reply, his phone chimes again.

_‘It’s unfortunate that I didn’t think to install cameras. I’m sure the show you and Shizu-chan put on was even dirtier.’_

He decides that saying nothing is for the best. Shizuo is out of the shower in no time, already wearing his uniform as he re-enters the room. He comes to sit on the end of the bed, watching the news on the TV that they never got around to turning off last night.

Izaya passes him and he doesn’t tear his eyes away. The informant thinks for a moment that he’ll reach out and pull him into his lap, and he definitely isn’t disappointed when he doesn’t.

He showers and brushes his teeth, mourns the absence of a scale for the billionth time. He finds himself looking at his reflection a little longer than he’s particularly comfortable with. The marks on his neck are slowly fading. His skin looks a little less pale than he remembers and the dark circles which usually hang below his eyes seem to have disappeared entirely. It’s a trick of the light, he’s sure. A fancy hotel like this will pull out all of the stops to make sure that its guests feel as good about themselves as possible.

When he returns to his bedroom, feeling oddly confident in his tacky work shirt and a pair of denim jeans, Shizu-chan is downing a bottle of milk and eating a piece of cake from last night.

“That’s not a healthy breakfast,” he greets, sauntering over to the mini fridge and fetching a bottle of water, “Please tell me that’s not all that you’re eating.”

His stomach hurts a little at the thought of it.

When he comes to sit by the beast, he’s offered a forkful. He shakes his head, but Shizu-chan shoves it closer to his face.

 _“I don’t eat breakfast,”_ is what he wants to say, but the second he opens his mouth, the brute shoves it in.

He chokes a little, the sweetness entirely too much for his taste buds, but Shizuo is shooting him a look that is one-hundred percent threatening. He chugs some water, forcing it down his throat. Tomoko’s staff is full of good cooks, he thinks, but cake is terrible no matter who makes it.

Shizu-chan looks pleased, however, and finishes it off within the minute. They need to leave soon. They’re talking about Fukayama’s store on the news. They have no leads on who threw a smoke bomb in the bathroom, but the police claim to be using every resource to find out.

Let them struggle. He’ll be long gone before they figure it out.

As they’re leaving the hotel, Shizuo reaches forward, brushing his fingers along Izaya’s wrist and staring down at him. An indecipherable expression crosses his face. Before the informant can ask what he’s thinking, he’s already walking down the sidewalk toward the bus stop.     
  


* * *

                                                                                    

Tomoko-san greets them as they enter the store.

She looks tired.

He nods in greeting and Izaya smiles that stupidly fake smile of his that all of the girls here seem to eat up. She tells the louse that Chiyo and the others helped with his workload yesterday, so he should be caught up. She asks Shizuo if he can wash the truck.

Izaya’s face lights up with a strange myriad of expressions. He seems excited at first, a little disappointed, then disgusted. It’s a truly unique display.

He agrees belatedly, not even waiting to be dismissed before making his way into the back room to gather supplies. It’s hot out, so he figures it won’t hurt to take off his shirt. The thought of wandering around wet for the rest of the day isn’t pleasing in the least.

He finds a bucket, a bottle of soap, and a cloth to wipe down the car. He fills the bucket in the mop sink.  
  
When he finally makes it outside, the van is a little more than daunting. It’s so big that he isn’t sure how long it will take for him to wipe the entire thing down. He might have to go in later and ask if Tomoko has a ladder so he can get the top.

There’s a hose outside though, he notes, feeling a little stupid for not checking before.

This area is its own little back alley; tall cement walls obscuring the view of the streets beyond and any neighboring buildings. An automatic gate further back lets out to the road. It reminds him a of the roofs he used to sunbathe on during school, private and serene, even surrounded by so much concrete.

He pulls his shirt over his head, folding it up and setting it down by the door. The sun feels good on his bare shoulders. He thinks of Izaya telling him that he’ll be wrinkled when he’s old, but he isn’t sure why that would matter anyway. He’ll already be old. Of course he’ll have wrinkles.

Dragging the hose toward the van, he begins by spraying it with an even coat of water. Already, he’s not looking forward to going back inside. The fresh air begs him to stay out as long as he can.

He’s rubbing circles of soap onto the side of the van, halfway done, when Tomoko-san comes outside. She’s immediately frazzled, covering her eyes with her hands. He wonders if he’s messed up. Is she going to write him up for undressing on the clock? She can’t have expected him to wash the van in his work shirt. He would have been filthy by the end of it.

At least without his shirt on, he can just hose himself off.

“H-Hayashi-kun—oh, um,” she can’t seem to find the right words.

He drags an arm over his sweaty forehead, spraying the suds from the van with the hose. This only seems to make her stuttering worse. He really has no clue what’s come over her.

“I-I, uh, well, uh,” She wrings her hands, looking anywhere but at him, “I—“

She turns abruptly and leaves, not even stopping the door from clattering as it closes behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s finishing up a call with a client when Tomoko enters the office, face so pink that Kyou-chan asks her if she needs to sit down for a moment.

“M-Maki-kun, please—um,” She’s trembling, frantic, in front of his desk, “C-could you please tell Hayashi-kun that it’s his break time?! Please! I would really appreciate it!”

She stumbles away after that. Chiyo lets out an obnoxious laugh.

“I bet she saw him doing something scandalous,” she croons, leaning back in her chair to make sure that the coast is clear, “She has a boyfriend, sure, but she definitely wants a piece of that.”

Izaya really dislikes the way that she says it, but he rises from his seat nonetheless. Chiyo also wants to sleep with Shizu-chan, so he wonders if the brute has such bad luck in love because he only attracts women who are taken. Of course that’s not it, but it might be what his terrible boss tells him.

_“You’re definitely not a monster, Shizuo. The girls who like you just aren’t available! It has nothing to do with you scaring the life out of them every time they come within ten meters of you!”_

He makes his way through the office, to the back room, and out the door.

When he stumbles upon Shizu-chan: naked from the waist up, slick with sweat and soap as he practically straddles the van, he really can’t blame Tomoko for freaking out. He feels a little lightheaded himself.

“Hayashi-kun,” he calls, barely able to compose himself and feeling utterly moronic because of it, “Break time. Boss’s orders.”

Shizuo looks at him, nods, and wrings out the rag he’s been wiping down the van with before settling it gently on the lip of the bucket.

“Is she okay?” he asks, motioning toward the door as though to reference Tomoko somehow.

Izaya chuckles. His stomach churns as he finds himself wondering where the brute has hidden his shirt.

“She’s fine,” he lies, not actually sure if Shizuo has caused the woman to have a mental breakdown or not, “She’s not used to seeing cute guys straddling her van. Especially those of the half-naked variety.”

Shizuo scowls at him, color bleeding along his neck toward his ears.

Izaya can smell the salt of his sweat as he passes, watches him as he bends over and grabs his shirt from the ground. It’s quite a view, but it’s over before he can even blink.

“Are you going on break too?” the brute asks. He pulls his shirt over his head.

He hasn’t taken it yet. Tomoko-san usually lets him go as he pleases, so he decides, _‘Yes, now would definitely be a good time.’_

“Is Hayashi-kun wanting to spend his lunch period with me?” he draws out, mirth curling his lips, “How romantic.”

Shizuo scoffs at him, but he doesn’t argue. It’s discomforting, though he finds that it feels a lot less foreign to get along with the brute than it would if he were to start a fight. It’s a startling realization, but he hides it well.

They grab some food from the kitchen after Izaya tells the office girls that he’s taking his lunch—the cooks glowering at him wordlessly just like before—and sit down on the storage room floor to eat. Shizu-chan wants to go back outside, but it’s far too hot.

“Celty texted me again this morning,” The blond says nonchalantly, mouth full of food, “She said Shinra’s been trying to call you.”

He realizes that Shinra doesn’t have the number to his current phone. Whoops.

“I guess she told him about the picture and he thinks it’s really important to talk about it. She might have just been lying though. She won’t stop bugging me about it.”

Izaya laughs at that, picking at his own lunch as he shuffles on the uncomfortable floor. The office girls have been asking him about Hayashi-kun’s girlfriend all day and he knows Shizuo wouldn’t want to deal with it. Although, with the wonderful things they had to say about the marks on his neck, he thinks maybe the monster deserves it.

“What are you going to tell her?” he finds himself asking before he can even stop himself.

It’s hard to admit that he might be excited to hear the answer, but after everything, this denial seems to be getting a little old. He remembers thinking about Shizu-chan a lot in high school, even dreaming about him at night. There were girls who whispered about the brute’s good looks, regardless of his reputation. He wonders if he targeted those girls because of it, pitting them against each other and laughing at their pathetic reactions as some sort of jealous vengeance.  

Everything seemed to make so much sense to him back then. It was hatred. Pure, obsessive hatred. But now he isn’t so sure. He thinks that maybe after watching so many humans for so long, the biggest mystery may be himself.

Shizuo is reliable in the way that he’s a wildcard, always reacting in the most unexpected manner, but sometimes, the way the protozoan makes him feel, it’s—

Surprisingly generic.

If the blond kisses him, it feels good and he likes it. If they hold hands, it’s nice and he wants to do it more often. When they’re sleeping together, he feels comfortable and safe. It’s so boring, so normal, and so unlike him.

“I’ll tell her what’s going on,” Shizuo says finally after a hard swallow, “I usually tell her everything.”

That must be why she’s so thrown off, he concludes, if she has always been Shizu-chan’s shoulder to cry on. She must feel like the mother of an unruly teen; locked out of his slowly-evolving story line and feeling the distance growing longer between them. He can feel the tendrils of jealously licking at his chest, but he doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to consider that maybe he still hates how popular the beast is.

“You’ll tell her about all of the gross things you did to me?” he teases, pointing his chop sticks at the blond.

Shizuo fixes him with a scowl.

“I’ll tell her about the funny noises you make,” he counters, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves more food in his mouth, “and how much you shake around.”

It’s Izaya’s turn to glare. He can’t think of anything to say to that, but he tells himself, frantically, _‘He wouldn’t do that! He’s too much of a coward! Celty wouldn’t believe him anyway!’_

Lunch ends soon after.

He’s wiping the dirt from his pants when Shizuo comes close to him, glancing hurried around the room.

“Listen,” he whispers, leaning in far too close for comfort, “I’m not going to tell her about that.”

Izaya wants to reply, _“Of course you won’t, idiot!”,_ but before he can get the words out or ever open his mouth, the blond moves in, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

“I’m going to tell her that I’m falling for a bloodsucking cockroach.”

And he saunters through the back door, completely unaware of how hard Izaya’s heart is thundering within his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

The workday comes to a close eventually, and they’re taking the bus back to the hotel before Shizuo knows it.

He’s sweaty and gross. Izaya doesn’t mention it, but he can tell by the way that the louse is wrinkling his nose than he can smell how grimy he is. He leans back in his seat as the informant takes out his phone. He’s texting someone, but with a calmer expression than usual. He finds himself wondering if that pervert is still harassing him.

They don’t speak until they’re back in the hotel room, Izaya still fiddling with his phone. His expression has darkened.

He wants to ask, but he knows better. The flea is so secretive about even the most mundane of things. If something is bothering him, he will hide his wounds until they bleed him dry.

Deciding that a shower is necessary as quickly as possible, he grabs a pair of pajamas from his room and makes his way into the bathroom. He can feel those sneaky eyes following him, even if Izaya is looking down at his phone every time he chances a glance.

But the water feels good on his skin, relaxes his muscles, and he forgets to feel annoyed as he finds himself zoning out beneath the healing stream of the shower.

There’s a week and a half left until this job is over and he’s already confessed the absolute unthinkable to the last person he ever thought he’d be confessing anything to. He wants to blame the air, or Izaya’s eyes, but he thinks that maybe part of becoming a man and not a coward is facing these sorts of things head-on.

He might be falling in love, he admits to himself. This might be about a lot more than trying to get a rise out of the louse. It might be more than two lonely men messing around behind closed doors.

It’s complicated, but it doesn’t have to be. If this were anyone but Orihara Izaya, they might even be taking this shower together.

The thought causes him to stiffen in more places than he cares to notice.

But Izaya is handsome—beautiful, even. He’s clever and funny, even if he’s a conniving piece of shit who ruins people’s lives for fun. He always has something to say, and there’s never a dull moment when he’s around. He’s not afraid of hurting the flea like he’s afraid of hurting Vorona or Tom. They sometimes feel like porcelain in his hands, like he could crush them if only he moves the wrong way.

But Izaya is a speeding arrow—breakable, yes, but impossible to catch.

He’s sly and horrible, maybe even the most villainous person Shizuo has ever met, but sometimes he’s vulnerable, and sometimes there is an undeniable shadow of something deep and passionate in his eyes. When he’s raw like that, he thinks that maybe the louse isn’t so impossible to love.

His hands are massaging shampoo into his hair when he hears the slimy bastard creep in. The glass door of the shower is foggy, but he can see the blur of him slipping through the doorway and coming to hop on top of the sink counter.

Wordlessly, Izaya continues to text. Shizuo is reminded of Yuigadokusonmaru. When he last visited Kasuka, the little furball had wandered from room to room behind them, pretending that he didn’t notice them even as he scrambled to his tiny feet every time they moved.

When he’s finished with his shower, he turns the water off, shaking off his feet and sliding the door open to step on steam-warmed tile.

Izaya still doesn’t appear to look up. When he grabs a towel from the rack to dry his hair, he feels those eyes on him again. He lets the towel fall around his shoulders, padding across the room to rest in front of the louse, who still doesn’t let his eyes lift from the screen of his phone.

“Better reception in here, flea?” he asks, placing a hand on the counter next to the other man’s thigh.

Izaya locks his phone screen, smiling up at him. There’s a devious glimmer in his grin.

“Are you as blind as you are stupid, monster?” Izaya draws out, letting his head come to rest on his shoulder, lashes low, “I’m trying to seduce you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sink digs into the back of his neck uncomfortably, and when he shuffles to the side, he can feel those strong fingers pressing down so hard into his hips that he knows he’ll find bruises there tomorrow.

He’s stripped from the waist down, sprawled out along the bathroom counter as Shizu-chan works his mouth between his legs—nipping at his thighs, then running that hot, wet tongue along his shaft in a way that causes shivers to tear through his form. He eases it all the way into the back of his throat, cheeks hollowed as he takes it deeper, then pulls back, and repeats the process so many times that Izaya loses count.

They have to stop meeting like this, he thinks, chuckling in a way that sounds suspiciously like a moan. He’s getting close already. He’s far too worked up from thinking about the brute half-naked, straddling the company van. He imagines, in a moment of weakness, getting fucked by the blond against it—held up by that monstrous strength and completely at the moron’s mercy.

He’s so thankful that Shizu-chan isn’t a mind-reader, because when he finds himself cumming far too soon to that single thought, he’s mortified enough without the brute knowing why.

Shizuo rises as he’s struggling to catch his breath. He makes as though to grab his towel from the floor and clean them up, and it takes every ounce of Izaya’s strength to reach out a hand to stop him.

“S-Shizu-chan,” he heaves, breathless and lightheaded, the lights a blur above them, “L-let me take care of you too.”

Shizuo looks down at him with the strangest expression—shocked, he thinks, or maybe petrified. He seems as though he isn’t sure what to do, and for the first time since they’ve started these elicit interactions, Izaya notices how flustered he looks.

Between his legs, Shizu-chan seems like he’s done this so many times before, but he’s still the same Shizu-chan. He’s not a pro. He doesn’t sleep around. He’s a nervous beast who can’t touch anyone without fear of hurting them.

It’s annoying, really, that he can be so talented as an amateur.

“You don’t have to,” the blond says finally, in the tiniest voice Izaya has ever heard him use.

He’s naked and his erection stabs out into the air, red and veiny and demanding of his attention. It’s not the biggest he’s ever seen, but it’s an intimidating sight. He licks his lips, face still flushed from his orgasm. He pulls himself from the counter and onto his knees in front of the brute. Shizuo is staring down at him, wide-eyed, like an animal caught in a trap.

He wonders if anyone has ever done this to him before. He wonders if anyone has ever touched him sexually at all.  

Reaching a hand forward, he runs his fingers over the length of it. Shizu-chan shudders, brows knitted as shaky fingers come to tangle in his hair. So they’re both nervous, he notes. He’s never done this before either.

Locking eyes with the brute, he leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on the head. Shizuo seems scandalized, but his cock twitches, undeniably excited against his lips. Just as the blond starts becoming too freaked, as though he might pull away any second, Izaya drags his tongue between his lips, ghosting the lightest of touches against the head. He grasps the base loosely. Shizuo flicks his eyes away.

“You’re not going to watch, Shizu-chan?” he hums, a long smirk cracking open his lips, “When I’m trying so hard to look sexy for you?”

He’s horrified by his own words, but riling up the beast is no fun if he doesn’t say disgusting things too. He considers momentarily busting out some Koizumi-level quotes, but he’s not sure if he could say some of those with a straight face.

He doesn’t even wait for the brute to gain the courage to look back before he takes the head into his mouth. It’s thick enough that his jaw strains as he slides it in, pumping the shaft slowly with his hand as he slides it as far in as he can muster. Shizu-chan is vibrating with need. He’s biting his lip, cheeks scarlet as he tugs feebly at Izaya’s hair.

Then, as though he’s living in a continuous nightmare, Izaya gags.

Shizuo flinches away immediately, eyes welling with fear. His hand leaves Izaya’s hair. It’s apparent that they’re done for the night.

“Shizu-chan—“

But the brute is gathering his towel and stumbling out of the bathroom. It’s almost funny, this entire fucked up situation, in a morbid, soul-crushing sort of way. He almost wants to laugh. But inside, he feels empty. He feels like they’ve been competing in a game this entire time and now, he’s finally lost.

His door prize is the image of Shizu-chan’s face, agonized with the horror of hurting him, burned into his vision for the rest of the night.

When he pull his pants back on and finds his way out into the living room, Shizuo has locked himself away in his room. There’s no light under the door. He should be celebrating, he thinks, for really hitting the monster where it hurts. Instead, there’s something a lot less pleasant floating around in his chest. If there was a passion slowly building between them, he’s definitely smothered it now. Koizumi would surely be thrilled.

He sits down on the couch, fetching his phone from his pocket and flipping through his texts. He’s been talking to Shinra, finally. The perverted doctor has never chatted with him so much about anything unrelated to Celty, but he sure had a lot of questions about Shizuo.

 _‘But he’s alive,’_ Shinra had texted, insultingly doubtful, _‘and you’re alive. Neither of you have tried to kill the other?’_

It had been amusing at the time, but now he’s not so sure. He ponders going over and knocking on Shizuo’s door, but the brute would surely want to see anyone but him.

He consider then texting Ota, but he thinks he might stab the old bastard if Shizu-chan actually lets him in.

He sits on the couch for a long time, stealing tiny looks at the blond’s door. He won’t go in. He won’t knock. He doesn’t understand how to comfort a human if he isn’t testing them somehow, and while Shizu-chan is definitely no human…

That only makes it worse.

He falls asleep without realizing it, clutching his phone closely and staring at the shadows moving along the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

 

Izaya is slumbering on the couch when he finds the nerve to leave his room in the morning. It’s still dark out, so much earlier than he’s even been awake before, but he couldn’t sleep at all.

He grabs a blanket from his room, carrying it across the living room and setting it gently over the louse. He gets ready, dons his work shirt, and slips out of the hotel room quietly.

There are very few cars on the road, even less people on the sidewalk. The doorman stifles a yawn as he wishes him a good morning. It’s chilly. Goosebumps prickle along his naked arms.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing thoughts of Izaya’s face staring up at him in need last night to the back of his mind.

And he walks.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s warm when he awakens, but damn does his back ache.

He’s scrunched up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells suspiciously like Shizu-chan as his alarm blares from somewhere underneath the couch.

Grumbling, he slides the upper half of his body down over the edge, groping blindly along the floor until his fingers touch the edge of his phone. He pulls the obnoxious thing up, rolling onto his back and silencing it.

He lets himself sit there for a moment, wondering if Shizuo will talk to him today after everything that happened last night. He wishes that they could just pretend it never happened, carry on with their usual banter. He can pull back, he thinks. He can take baby steps with the cowardly monster if he needs to.

For a pushy pervert, he sure gets his feelings hurt easily.

With a sigh, he drags himself from the couch, heart sinking as he looks over to the other man’s door and sees it open, but the room inside void of life.

The bathroom is empty as well. He even checks his own room, just in case, and the brute is nowhere to be found.

He’s overcome by a peculiar feeling. It reminds him of watching children play without him as he read alone during break. It’s reminiscent of the unsettling emotion that wracked through him as Shinra bled out on the biology room floor.

He doesn’t want to confront this feeling, so instead, he gets ready for work.

He tells himself that he’s annoyed that the monster will blow their cover by skipping work. That’s absolutely it, he thinks. He’s suffered so much for this job and the idiot is going to ruin everything. No Shizu-chan, no Fukayama, no payoff. He’ll go home empty-handed. The Awakusu group will break his ankles. Everyone loses, and the beast continues to live his miserable life as though no one has been hurt because of him.

He’s a selfish monster. Izaya doesn’t even want to hate him anymore. He wants to look at the beast and feel nothing.

A cold breeze sweeps over him when he finally makes it outside. He’s sure Shizuo forgot to bring a jacket, but he reminds himself that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even want to know if the moron is okay. He definitely isn’t worrying about where he went.

His phone doesn’t vibrate as he rides the bus to work. He feels as though he’s trapped behind a glass cage. It reminds him of home. Closed off from everyone else, trapped within his own carefully-crafted walls. No one will speak to him and he will speak to no one either.

For some reason, it feels so much more miserable than it used to.

When he makes it to work, head pounding as the bell rings overhead, he’s almost surprised when Tomoko greets him.

“There you are, Maki-kun,” she calls, smiling sweetly, “Oh, wow. Are you okay? You look pale.”

He reassures her, yes, he’s fine. He just didn’t sleep well.

The office girls offer to make him some soup, but he declines. He listens only half-heartedly as Kyou-chan tells a story about a man her mother introduced her to. The sex was great, but there was some insignificant flaw in his personality or appearance that she just couldn’t allow herself to accept—yes, yes, he’s heard this all before.

He massages his temples as he talks with customers on the phone. His emails are absent of his usual charisma. This isn’t like him, he tells himself. He’s never felt so drained.

When his break comes, he drags himself out through the back door, hoping that the frigid wind will wake him up.

But then he sees him—Shizu-chan, the idiot, the insufferable, self-centered, mouse of a monster—smoking idly as though Izaya hasn’t been worried sick—

No, as though Izaya hasn’t been boiling with rage because he’d ditched out on their mission.

“Hayashi-kun,” he spits, forcing a leer as his legs thankfully lead him forward, “Nice of you to show up to work.”

Shizuo raises a brow, but doesn’t do much else. He takes a drag, won’t quite meet Izaya’s eyes.

“I got here early.”

The informant wants to hit him, wants to brandish his knife and cut off those beastly fingers, if only so he can stop pulling that damn cigarette from his lips.

Instead, he turns on his heel, shutting the door as hard as he can as he stomps back inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Shizuo finishes the rest of his break in silence.

There’s a thickness in his throat that will not go down no matter how hard he swallows.

He’s been thinking about that look on Izaya’s face all day—how much he’d wanted to touch him, to pleasure him too. Arousal mixes with fear in the most uncomfortable of ways. He thinks then of the sound of Izaya choking, that terror that had taken over him as he’d torn away. He hates it, how afraid he was.

He doesn’t like this part of himself: the part that shuts down completely when things become too difficult to handle.

But he’d been so worried about hurting the louse, even if he’s denied it. He knows the idiot is probably humiliated because he choked and Shizuo overreacted. He feels it too. He wants to go back and apologize, but how?

_“I’m sorry that you choked on my dick and I ran away from you”?_

Yeah right.

It had been a knee-jerk reaction, to stop. He’s slept around only twice, and both partners left with more bruises and scrapes than he cares to remember. He wants to be a gentle lover, someone who can take their partner into their arms and show them how much he cares. He wants to plant soft kisses on their skin, to run his fingers through their hair without fear of tearing it out.

He wants to be a normal man, to be able to make love with this absolute asshole of a human being whom he’s fallen for, without worrying that Izaya won’t be able to walk away from it unscathed.

Tomoko-san asks him to move some filing cabinets in the office when he returns. Immediately, he’s filled with dread. She seems to sense it.

“Are you and Maki-kun not getting along?” She asks. He shrugs.

He’s not in the mood for this right now. His head is swimming, thoughts so jumbled that he couldn’t tell her what’s going on with the two of them if he wanted to.

Chiyo is telling a joke when he enters the office. It’s something dirty, he’s sure, by the way she trails off when she notices him.

“Ah, Maki-kun, how’s it going with your foxy aggressive girlfriend?” She asks instead, and Shizuo wonders what in his previous life he did to deserve this eternal Hell in which he currently exists.

Izaya doesn’t speak for a moment, typing something with a lot more force than Shizuo thinks is necessary.

“We’re not getting along right now,” he replies eventually, so obviously annoyed that each of the girls seem to pick up on it, “She’s decided that she wants to act like a child.”

Chiyo laughs at that, of course, because she has no tact. Shizuo isn’t sure if he wants to strangle her or revel in how easily she’s riled up the louse. He begins moving the filing cabinets—trying to remember the places Tomoko-san had asked him to put them.

“A child, huh,” Chiyo leans back in her chair, voice high with mirth, “Is she not putting out?”

Izaya twitches, refusing to look away from his screen.

“She thinks she can just come and go as she pleases,” he explains, sitting a little too straight, shoulders too stiff, “She’s very self-centered and irresponsible. As I said, a child.”

Chiyo coos, obviously loving this drama.

Shizuo finds himself shaking. The louse thinks he comes and goes as he pleases? _He’s_ the child? He’s not the one throwing a fit over nothing! He’s not the one stomping around and slamming doors!

“Maybe if you actually knew what you were doing, she’d stay with you,” He growls before he can stop himself. His cheeks burn with anger.

Izaya looks at him then, fingers trembling against the keys, surely outraged.

“If I _knew what I was doing_?” he hisses, keyboard clattering as he pushes it back, “ _She’s_ the one who stormed out before I was even done. It’s not my fault that she’s an idiot who can’t tell the difference between gagging and genuine pain.”

He drops the filing cabinet, the edges of his vision blurry with rage. He knows the difference! It’s not his fault that the man who says perverse things like _“I’m seducing you”_ and _“I’m trying to look sexy for you”_ is miserably horrible at actually performing!

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking puny, she wouldn’t have to worry about hurting you, fucking idiot! Try eating regular meals once in awhile so she doesn’t feel like she’s going to snap you in half every time you guys mess around!”

Izaya stands then, the chair sliding backwards into the wall with a clatter. He can see nothing else but the louse, standing there so much angrier than he’s ever witnessed before. He wants to punch him right in that smug fucking mouth of his. He wants to wrap his hands around the asshole’s throat and squeeze until he can’t say anything disgusting or deceptive ever again. He wants to—

“Maybe I _want_ it to hurt! Maybe _I like_ it when she leaves marks on me! Have you ever thought of that, you simple-minded monster; that maybe the reason why I’m messing around with her in the first place is because I _like it_ rough?!”

Someone clears their throat loudly, and Shizuo tears his head around to see all three of the office girls staring at them. Tomoko-san is standing in the doorway, so perturbed that her entire body seems to have been dyed red. Bunko-san is covering her face and Chiyo begins cackling like a madwoman the moment Izaya turns to stare, wide-eyed at their unwilling group of bystanders.

“Um, Maki-kun… Hayashi-kun… Do you guys need some air?” Tomoko-san asks meekly, shaking from head to toe.

Shizuo finds that his legs work perfectly fine despite everything. He bolts past her, out into the hall, all the way to the chilly air outside of the back door. It closes behind him, soundless as his blood pounds in his ears.

He allows himself to slide down to the ground, eyes wide, hands trembling with rage and fear and unimaginable disgrace.

Although, he discovers that his heart his light. His muscles are slowly relaxing. The ugly tightness that’s been coiling in his gut all morning is slowly fading to nothing.

Izaya… _likes it when he’s rough?_

He allows that thought to sink in. He’s never met anyone in his life who would be willing to admit that. He’s never interacted with a single human being who has found pleasure in the pain he causes.

 _‘The louse,’_ he thinks, fumbling with adrenaline-dumbed hands for his cigarette carton, _‘he’s a lot more perverted than I thought.’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I really do apologize for how dirty these chapters are becoming. I can't promise that next chapter won't have an even worse scene in it (because it's already written and there absolutely is a worse scene in it), but things are going to start coming together very, very quickly! It's a little over halfway done at this point, so finally, things are going to get serious! (No they aren't, but I hope you know what I mean.)
> 
> This chapter was originally supposed to end right after Izaya fell asleep, but then I started feeling really guilty about leaving it off like that, so the rest was added in. Which I'm very happy that I did, because the last two scenes were absolutely fantastic to write! I'm a huge sucker for the "secret relationship" dynamic! And also... Izaya is really bad at seducing people when he really wants to. Pretend that you're trying to trick him, Izaya! Damn. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! I'll see you guys Friday, hopefully!


	9. Lonely Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a situation changes, it's only for the worse.

Of course the brute has ditched him.

It’s impossible to slip on a smirk in this situation, even for him. He grabs his chair, pulling it back into place and sitting quietly. He refuses to look at Tomoko. He will not address this situation.

Everyone drowns in the awkward silence. The only sound is his fingers shakily hitting his keyboard, erasing and retyping the same sentence five times before he finally gets it right.

“M-Maki-kun,” Tomoko starts. He cuts her off.

“My apologies, boss. I will try to keep my personal life separate from work from now on.”

There’s an air about her that implies that she wants to continue pressing the matter, but he shuts himself off. If it’s not work-related, he will not answer her. It’s that simple.

“Well,” Chiyo sighs, a frustrating amusement lining her words, “That was unexpected.”

So what? He likes it rough. That’s perfectly normal. He's an adult. Shizu-chan is an adult. What they agree to do in the bedroom is completely up to them. Kyou has told long and painfully detailed stories about far more deranged sexual escapades and no one has ever batted an eye.

“I wonder why Hayashi-kun overreacted like that,” Kyou whispers, stupid enough to assume that he won’t hear her if she keeps her voice down less than a yard away, “Does he even know Shizu-chan?”

These girls are all incredibly dimwitted, he decides. He wonders if that’s why Koizumi chose their company in the first place.

“He’s probably jealous,” Chiyo chuckles, chair squeaking as she swivels around, “He wants a piece of that Maki-kun booty.”

Izaya sends her the iciest look he can muster. She waves her hands in front of her.

“I’m sorry!” She howls, jovial as always, too dumb to understand what sort of danger a look like that could mean for her, “I’m still rooting for you guys! I can’t help it! Just thinking about two hunks like you bumping uglies gets me—“

“I get it,” He blurts, so ready to go home and crawl into bed, “But please keep your gross fetishes to yourself.”

He can hear her grumble of, _‘You’re one to talk’,_ but he chooses to ignore it.

Shizu-chan doesn’t appear again for the rest of the day. The filing cabinet is still sitting in the middle of the room when the building closes.  


* * *

Every day, this bus ride back to the hotel gets more awkward.

He keeps telling himself— _this is it! It can’t get any worse than this!_ —but it always does.

It’s Wednesday, he notes, glancing around at all of the unfamiliar faces on the bus. Next Friday is Fukayama’s banquet. Eight more days and six more of these horrible trips from work to the hotel until they can board the quickest plane back to Ikebukuro and forget that any of this ever happened.

He doesn’t even want to look at Izaya to see what he’s doing. Probably texting. Probably scowling at his phone and slumped down in his seat. When the bus stops, they both rise and climb down onto the sidewalk, traveling with all of the other workers returning home, appearing to be just as much of strangers to each other as everyone else they pass.

But they aren’t anymore, he muses. They might not be talking, but that’s only because they know far too much about each other. Izaya knows about his debilitating fear of hurting his partners during sex. He knows that the louse is really bad at blowjobs and wants nothing more than to be roughed up in the bedroom.

The scales might actually be tipped in his favor, he decides.

He barely even notices the walk up to their room. If anyone greeted him, he was far too lost in thought. He feels guilty as Izaya throws open the hotel room door and they wander inside. He wonders if the doorman even cares, if the maids might have faltered as he walked by wordlessly.

Taking his usual place on the couch, he resigns himself to the fact that he and Izaya won’t be talking for a long time. He turns on the TV and ignores the sounds of the louse messing about in his room. There’s a documentary playing about the best dessert restaurants in Japan. He can feel his stomach grumbling. The flea seems to be fumbling with his luggage as the TV host begins interviewing happy customers, panning in on high definition shots of sweets that Shizuo can only dream of eating.

They’re talking about an ice cream parlor which serves extra-large portions when the flea scent wafts just a little too close for comfort. He feels lithe fingers working through his hair.

Then, his vision goes black.

He’s not unconscious, but there’s something covering his face.

“Don’t move,” Izaya’s voice soothes, silky and pleasant as he’s ever heard it, “Don’t ruin this, Shizu-chan.”

There’s a moment in which all he does is sit obediently. He waits for pain, for the feeling of a blade against his skin. He waits for the louse’s laughter in his face.

But then there’s a weight on his lap. He can feel those thin thighs pressed against either side of his hips, soft hands coming to rest against shoulder and chest.

“I’ll deny ever saying this if you decide to bring it up again,” Izaya breathes over him, lips ghosting against his, “But I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m… I apologize.”

The last bit sounds so strained that it throws the entire act off. The erection slowly growing in his pants seems to pause, confused. It’s hilarious. It takes everything he has not to make a joke about it, but he knows the louse is trying his hardest. It’s touching to hear it, even if it’s basically killing the other man to say that he’s sorry.

He does reply, however, because he doesn’t want the flea to think that he’s still pissed.

“I think you feel just fine, louse,” he hums, struggling blindly as his hands eventually come to settle on the informant’s hips, “You’re not too skinny.”

Izaya sniggers at that, kissing him.

“You’re an ass,” he whispers, grinding his hips against Shizuo’s in a way that has his dick standing at attention in no time.

He thinks that this might be real seduction, as opposed to that half-assed teenage girl shit the louse had pulled yesterday in the bathroom. It’s exciting, how eager the other man is for him, how he’s been pushing their boundaries instead of running away like before.

This game is so much more fun with two willing participants.

“I found something very interesting in the bathroom, Shizu-chan,” Izaya purrs, leaning back in his lap as the sound of a cap popping open breaks through the air, “Would you like to feel?”

He nods wordlessly, allowing the louse to grasp his hand and hold it between them. Something warm and slick is dabbed on his fingers. He rubs them together, confused for only a heartbeat before he finds himself wondering, skin on fire, ‘ _Why the Hell did Ota-san stock something like that?!’_

It sounds as though Izaya has recapped the lube. He rolls their hips together again, kissing Shizuo deeper as both of them begin to breathe just a little bit harder. He allows his head to fall back against the couch (eyes completely useless anyway) as Izaya nips at his throat. He can hear the announcer on TV talking about a chocolate factory which makes custom shaped candies.

The flea begins to fiddle with his belt, loosening it with ease and unbuttoning his pants. His movements are painstakingly slow. The fly is pulled down, and he lifts his hips from the couch as the louse tugs his pants just low enough that his erection bobs unabashedly outward. He can’t see a thing. The air against his cock feels intimidating and far too open. He can hear the bottle being opened again.

A slick hand begins to play with him. It’s clumsy at first, but without him staring, the louse finds a good pace and gradually gains confidence. He trembles, teeth digging into his lip as he stifles a groan. Izaya is breathing oddly, as though he’s gritting back pain. It makes no sense to him at all. He can’t comprehend what the louse could possibly be doing that would cause him discomfort, except—

“I-Izaya—“he gasps, noting the way the louse stiffens above him.

He’s… touching himself too. But in a different place.

Shizuo isn’t sure how ready he is for this. He thought the informant would jerk him off and laugh at him as he scrambled to reciprocate without his vision. He never could have imagined actually _having sex_ with the louse. Especially like this. If he'd thought about it at all, which he definitely hasn't, then he'd have wanted to lay the informant down in his bed. He would have kissed him slowly, giving equal attention to every centimeter of that pristine, ivory skin before taking him slowly and with great, gentle care. But this—this is so dirty, so pornographic, so _wrong_.

He finds that somehow, this realization only makes him want it more.

Izaya kisses him again, wet and clumsy. He wishes he could see those eyes, but he doesn’t want to waste all of the courage that it surely took to throw this thing together. He knows Izaya is nervous too, he can feel it in his posture. He’s aroused. His cock rubs against Shizuo’s thigh as he fingers himself.  But there’s still a robotic manner in the way he moves, as though he isn’t quite as sure of himself as he wants Shizuo to believe.

Before he can ponder it too much, however, he feels something tight as warm pressing against the head of his penis. He can’t help but jerk, and Izaya huffs reassurances into his ear as that tightness steadily envelops him.

“It’s just me, S-Shizu-chan,” he coaxes, “I-it’s okay.”

He’s been swallowed whole before he knows it. It’s been such a long time since he’s been inside of another person, and never inside of a person who he’s felt so strongly about. He shudders at the sensation, far too sensitive as Izaya begins to nibble on his ear.

“D-does it feel good?” he pants, voice thick with an unusually arousing mixture of pain and pleasure, “How does it—d-does it feel to be inside of me?”

He can’t speak. He garbles a response that is nothing but nonsense, but he can feel Izaya’s walls tighten around him. His hands finds the informant’s cock, grasping at it weakly, thumbing the weeping head.

“A-ah, S-Shizu-chan,” he moans, lifting his hips shallowly and lowering them down, the feeling of it so delicious that Shizuo can barely even understand words anymore, “I-I think it feels very good.”

He wants to tell the louse to shut up, but he can’t comprehend how to speak. Izaya begins to ride him, slowly at first, but then faster and more evenly. They’re both slick with lube, the sound of it squelching where the two of them meet. His hand pumps awkwardly at the louse’s erection, thoughts swimming as he finds himself becoming lost in boundless pleasure.

This is too much. He can’t handle it. His chest feels full, like he might burst. Every piece of him tingles with the need to hold the louse, to cherish him and never let him go.

“I-Izaya—“he slurs, feeling the informant’s cock twitch at the sound of his name, “I—I—“

The louse’s face is buried in the crook of his shoulder, nimble fingers digging into his skin so hard that it almost hurts. He’s letting out tiny mewls and hiccups. Shizuo isn’t sure if the other man can even hear him speaking.

“I—“

Izaya is kissing his collarbone. It burns, almost, and he savors the feeling of it as the words he’s trying so hard not to say rumble through his chest.

“ _I-I love you._ “

The louse convulses as his orgasm tears through him. He doesn’t know if it’s because of what he said or not. He doesn’t think those stupid words would do it, not for Izaya. Not for someone so detached from feeble human emotions such as _love_.

Izaya is a twitching mess above him for what feels like eternity. He’s still hard inside, hips aching to thrust upward into that tight heat. The world is nothing but blackness behind the blindfold. He wonders if he should take it off.

There's a mysterious wetness on his shoulder, but he doesn’t mention it.

Izaya begins to move his hips again.

He grits out a moan, balling his fists at his sides as he struggles not to move too much and throw the other man off. Izaya doesn’t whisper to him this time or nibble on his ear. Their breathing is so loud that he can’t even hear the TV. The louse kisses him again, dragging his tongue along his lips as he wraps thin arms around his neck.

He opens his mouth a little, allowing Izaya entrance. He feels the tingle of teeth digging into his bottom lip.

And he cums, the louse all around him, consuming him like no one ever has before.

It’s a long time before he finds the strength to pull the blindfold off.  


* * *

 

His phone is ringing.

It’s too early in for his alarm to be blaring already, he notes, skimming the darkness through the curtains with blurry vision as he searches for the annoying thing. Shizu-chan grunts, arms wrapping just a little tighter around him as he discovers himself, for the billionth time, lying tangled on the couch with the brute.

Everything aches a little, but the feeling of it is anything but unpleasant.

The blindfold is lying innocently on the floor beneath them. He takes a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for remembering to bring it. Of course, its intended purpose was definitely far more sinister than what he’d ended up using it for, but it was there when he needed it and that’s all that really matters.

He finally finds his phone between the cushions, a small headache spreading along his temples as _‘Pervert’_ flashes on the screen.

When he answers, holding the phone loosely against his ear, he doesn’t even get the chance to greet the bastard.

“Iza-chan, you’re up,” the old fart sings, voice as shrill as he can muster, “Or have you slept? Please tell me Shizu-chan is letting you get some well-deserved rest.”

He lets out a long, labored breath.

“Listen,” he sighs, voice low as Shizuo shifts behind him, “I have to be up for work in a few hours—“

“Oh, you’re calling in sick today. Pull yourself away from the monster and get ready.”

He doesn’t mind skipping work, but the _“escaping Shizu-chan’s grasp”_ part of this plan is already proving troublesome. The brute’s arms are iron bars around him. While soft and smooth and oh-so warm, he finds that he might be forced to resort to digging out his knife and sawing his way out if he wishes to take on whatever job Koizumi has lined up for him.

“Oh, and by the way,” the old man adds, voice a low lull through the receiver, “I hope you still have that schoolgirl uniform.”  


* * *

 

  
Izaya is gone when he wakes up.

Just as he’s ready to break something, however, he spots an item on the coffee table that he’s positive wasn’t there the night before.

It’s a pudding packet. Underneath, there’s a note.

Izaya’s handwriting is loopy and effeminate. Hearts and stars dot the corners of the paper, surely drawn with great precision in order to look like a fifteen year old girl scribbled them down. He scoffs, scratching unruly bedhead as he scans over what it says.

 _‘Maki-kun is calling in sick today!_ (There are three hearts in a line here, as though to emphasize his words somehow) _Duty calls, Shizu-chan! Try to be a good brute! –XOXOXOXOXO Iza-chan’_

It’s the most depraved thing he’s even read. He finds himself wondering if pouring bleach in his eyes will kill him.

If so, maybe it’s for the best.

It’s depressing getting ready all by himself, and he feels guilty for forcing it on Izaya yesterday. The louse gets lonely easily anyway, even though he thinks he does an amazing job of hiding it. After messing up their moment together, surely he’d felt awful.

He’s a little late when he finally leaves the hotel. He makes sure to actually greet the staff this time, feeling bad about so many things as he rushes down the sidewalk. The bus is just leaving as he reaches the stop. He resigns himself to the reality that this job is already impossibly hard without the louse around to keep him in check.

It’s fifteen minutes after his shift is supposed to start when he finally drags himself through the door, huffing and sweaty from running almost the entire way.

“Oh, Hayashi-kun,” Tomoko-san calls, clearly stressed, “Maki-kun called in sick today! I was worried you might have caught whatever he has!”

 _‘Why?’_ he wants to ask, but the answer is evident in the awkward way she shuffles about. After their little argument yesterday, surely everyone is suspicious.

“Would you mind moving those filing cabinets?” she asks, jumping at the sound of the phone ringing, “The office girls are splitting Maki-kun’s workload, but it’s hard for them move around, uh… with the cabinet in the middle of the room.”

Oh. He forgot all about that.

He agrees, sheepish as he makes his way into the office. Kyou-san is answering the phone at Izaya’s desk when he enters. All three pairs of eyes are instantly glued to him.

“Well, look who it is,” Chiyo cackles, quieter than usual as Kyou-san begins to speak with a customer, “So I guess you and Maki-kun duked it out yesterday after work and you won, right? Is that why he called off, because you roughed him up too badly?”

She has the worst ideas. He’s not sure how Izaya spends so much time around these girls without going insane.

“I don’t know where he is,” he lies, remembering that idiotic note (which he’ll deny even to himself is folded up inside of his wallet), “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

She seems doubtful, but she doesn’t press it. Bunko-san sends him a knowing look and the filing cabinet creaks as his grip around it tightens. It’s moved across the room within minutes, and he tries to fix the others before enough time passes that they decide to pester him in the louse’s place.

Kyou-san finishes the call, wishing their client a good day.

“Are we allowed to ask you what happened yesterday?” She asks, setting the phone gently in the receiver.

He wants to say _“no”,_ but he reminds himself that these are all very nice people. Even though he’s having a bad day, he can’t deny that. They’ve been warm and welcoming ever since he and the louse got here, so much different than the sorts of people he used to work with back home.

He isn’t really quite sure what to tell her, however, without making it sound like he, Izaya, and the fictional, female version of himself are in some sort of love triangle. He tries to imagine what the louse would say, what kind of lies he would weave to cover his trail.

“He’s always complaining about that girl, “He grumbles at long last, “Here at work and on the bus ride home. He needs to pull his head out of his ass before she ditches him for good.”

He’s really proud of himself for coming up with something so genuine, something that is so far from the truth that he doesn’t even feel embarrassed as he speaks. Truth be told, leaving Izaya is the last thing he’s been considering. If anything, being away from him for even this short amount of time has left him a little antsy.

They’re not as convinced as they should be, but that’s okay. Izaya told him that they’re a suspicious bunch. They’d asked the flea one day where he’d worked before applying at the catering company. When he’d told them that he’d worked in sales, they’d looked at each other as though he’d claimed he was an astronaut or a popstar.

 _“It wasn’t even really a lie,”_ the flea had chuckled, _“But they expected me to go into more detail, as though I carry my resume around with me everywhere I go.”_

He’s not even sure what would be on the sneaky bastard’s resume.

Professional dumpster? Experienced life-ruiner? Scheming pile of human excrement?

He’ll have to ask him later.

“Maki-kun is too sensitive,” Chiyo chimes in suddenly, uncapping her water bottle and taking a long gulp, “He’s always going on about how Shizu-chan is so cute and perfect, then he’s accusing her of using him because she’s lonely. Then she has the most beautiful smile, but she’s too perverted for him a day later. That boy needs to make up his mind.”

He pauses as he’s setting the last filing cabinet on the floor. He doesn’t remember hearing the louse say any of that. How often has Izaya talked about him?

Kyou-san laughs as she sits down at her own desk, shuffling about as she tries to get comfortable.

“Remember when he started ranting about how cute her sweet tooth is?”

Chiyo howls with laughter, leaning back in her chair as the two of them talk about this apparent conversation that they had with the louse.

“He said she eats cake for breakfast almost every day,” she squeaks, breathless with amusement, “Didn’t you tell him that he should surprise her with some cake Nantaimori-style? And he got that sneaky look on his face like he was actually considering it!”

Bunko-san is the only one who isn’t laughing. The looks she’s sending him are causing a nervous electricity to scatter along his skin. She knows something, he tells himself, and no matter how uplifting it is to listen in on these little secrets that he’s sure were never meant for his ears, he can’t stand the sight of her figuring him out much longer.

He bows, telling them that he’s finished and needs to find Tomoko-san. He’s sure they notice the stiff way in which he stalks out of the room.  


* * *

 

Izaya isn’t entirely sure how he feels about it, but he finds (the sensation of eyes on his bare thighs searing along his skin) that he might not be in control of this situation.

He’s tucked between Koizumi and one of his bodyguards, choking on the thick smoke clouding the air as two mangled-looking low-lives glower hungrily in at him from a long couch a little ways away. He’s wearing the stupid uniform again, per Koizumi’s request, and they’ve found themselves in the home of one of Fukayama’s bodyguards.

He’s not sure who the other men are. There are five of them total, a group that only becomes uglier as he drags his eyes from face to face.

“So you want me to betray my boss,” one of the men says, “What’s in it for me?”

He’s only moderately disgusting looking—buzzed hair fuzzy along his scalp, dark eyes overshadowed by frizzy, unkempt eyebrows. He’s wearing a stained tank top, loose jeans that sag around his waist, and his hands are scarred in a way that Izaya recognizes among men who are poor with sharp weapons.

“You get this pretty girl here,” Koizumi draws out, “She’s the one who threw those fireworks in your boss’s store. I’m sure he would give you a big bonus if you wanted to teach her a lesson.”

Izaya feels a chill skittering up his spine, stomach dropping hard as he struggles to keep a straight face. This is a joke, he tells himself. Koizumi isn’t going to sell him out like this.

However, he’s being pulled up by his arm before he can even react and shoved across the distance between both couches. He finds himself falling onto the cushions next to one of the more unattractive men. His skirt rides up in the most horrible of ways—ass exposed only momentarily as he reaches down as quickly as he can to shove it back in place. He turns to send Koizumi the darkest glare he can muster. The ugly thug grins down at him, licking his lips. He feels vile.

He’s been ordered not to speak, but if Koizumi thinks he’ll sit idly by and let this happen, he might not make it out of here either.

“She’s cute, but a little young for me,” the bodyguard taunts. Izaya relaxes only slightly, “No cash, no deal.”

Izaya pulls himself up to sit as far away from the unsightly, drooling lackey as he can. The feeling of those dull, black eyes on his hips causes bile to fill his throat. Koizumi smiles at him briefly, loving this, before leaning forward and naming a price. It’s not as much as he’s paying him and Shizu-chan, but for such a loser, it must sound like he’s won the lottery.

They talk for a long time after that. Just as Izaya begins to zone out, there’s a hand on his leg, traveling slowly up to his thigh. No one seems to notice, and he turns quicker than the untrained eye can comprehend to face the horrendous, smirking—missing so many teeth between dry, cracked lips—face of the crony who can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that Izaya is not up for offer anymore.

Koizumi’s smile falters, but before he can make a move, Izaya has his knee in the other man’s stomach, knife against his throat as he pins him to the cushions. It takes everything he has no the spit in his face. He’s shaking with the effort not to speak.

The bodyguard begins to laugh, but Koizumi doesn’t.

“Your girl is quite the silent-but-deadly type,” he jokes.

Koizumi stands then, his bodyguards hovering eerily behind.

“Are you going to call your dog off?” he hisses, eyes dark, towering over each of them as Izaya shoves his blade firmer against the whimpering idiot’s jugular, “I thought we could settle this like men, but if you think your underlings can just act like animals, maybe I’ll kill you instead.”

 _‘You’re even worse though!_ ’ Izaya wants to scream, but even if he hadn’t taken a vow of silence, he’s not sure if he could muster the courage to speak. He’s not used to someone defending his honor, especially a soulless bastard like Koizumi.

“O-oh, of course,” The bodyguard struggles to keep his composure, “Eito, back off.”

Izaya pulls himself away, allowing the piece of garbage to slink off.

These humans, he sighs, folding his knife, they make themselves so hard to love.  


* * *

 

It’s nearly the end of his shift when Tomoko-san pulls him to the side, telling him that they need to talk.

He’s getting fired, he just knows it.

They make their way into the back room—the only place in this entire building with any privacy—before she begins wringing her hands again. He wants to tell her to calm down or her blood pressure will skyrocket, but he has no room to talk. A heart attack really should be higher up on his list of worries.

But worrying about high blood pressure will only raise it further. He doesn’t know what to think about this.

“Hayashi-kun,” she shudders, gaze flicking to everything in the room but him, “It’s not easy to ask this, but—“

“I understand,” he interjects, bowing his head, wondering what in the world he’s going to tell Izaya and Koizumi-san, “I shouldn’t have acted out yesterday. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be a better employee.”

She pauses, raising a brow.

“U-uh, no, Hayashi-kun. You’re not in trouble… I just wanted to ask if, um…”

She’s still for so long that he almost reaches over and shakes her. He’s not sure why he and Izaya weren’t at least reprimanded. Even Tom-san would be frustrated with that sort of inappropriate display.

 _“Please don’t fight with your boyfriend at work, Shizuo.”_ His boss would say.

He’s not sure why, but the idea of calling Izaya his boyfriend causes such an unusual heat to work its way along his cheeks that he has to pull away for a moment to compose himself.

“I-I just wanted to ask if you needed someone to talk to,” Tomoko-san says finally, brows knitted as she looks bashfully up at him, “A-ah, about what’s going on between you and Maki-kun. I know it can’t be easy, b-but there are plenty of fish in the sea! I really thought he was the one who swung that way, but—but it’s okay if you do instead!”

He stares at her for a very long time.

She can’t be serious.

“Tomoko-san,” he says blankly, suddenly dying to tear something in half, to punch Izaya right in his stupid fucking face just for causing all of this, “I… I have a girlfriend.”

She looks as though she doesn’t know what to say.

“I need to get back to work,” he forces, so many emotions whirling inside of him that he thinks he might pass out, “The… the front room still needs… vacuumed.”

And he leaves.  


* * *

 

They’re climbing inside of the car when Koizumi finally speaks to him.

“I’m sorry about that,” the old man breathes, a hard stare focused on their feet crowding the floor, “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of control.”

Izaya doesn’t understand. Koizumi has been harassing him this entire time. Why does he suddenly care if someone else does it too?

“I know what you’re thinking,” the mob boss adds, finally looking at him, “But that was unprofessional. You’re being paid to be tormented by me and no one else.”

There it is, he thinks. Koizumi’s idiotic reasoning.

_‘Oh no, I’m not feeling guilty because I’ve violated your basic rights as a human being who deserves to be respected. I’m just not paying you quite enough to be fondled by random nobodies.’_

Koizumi tells him that this man will allow them to get to Fukayama easier. He’ll distract the other bodyguards just long enough that Shizu-chan can sneak past them. He’ll be in contact, he adds, and he’ll tell them what the plans are for the night, so the brute knows when it's best to strike.

He’s dropped off two blocks away from the hotel. It’s already getting dark. One look at his phone tells him that Shizu-chan got off of work nearly an hour ago. He’s not particularly looking forward to the brute’s reaction to him in these clothes again. However, deep down, he knows that it can only end well if the blond gets riled up.

Maybe he’ll take another crack at sucking Shizuo off.

Just as he’s passing the café that Shizu-chan and Bunko-chan had eaten at days before, he hears someone calling out. It’s a familiar voice that he can’t quite place.

“Maki-kun?! Maki-kun, is that you?”

He turns, horrified, to find Chiyo walking toward him, holding hands with a man he’s never seen before. He makes as though to bolt, but before he can force his legs to work, she calls out again.

“Maki-kun, what the hell?! I know that’s you!”

She’s catching up to him, leaving her fiancé straggling behind.

“Look at you,” she squeals, reaching out to tug at the green fabric adorning his arms, “Whew, okay, I promise I won’t tell Tomoko-chan, but did you really call off just so you could parade around in drag?!”

A car speeds by. He forces himself not to jump out in front of it. He wishes he could melt into a puddle on the ground. He’d rather be back at that loser bodyguard’s house getting fondled than standing here right now.

“Chiyo, please don’t misunderstand,” he chokes out, sweat beading his brow as he attempts to find an excuse, “I… I’m not a cross-dresser.”

She’s doubled over, howling with laughter before he knows it. Her fiancé has finally caught up to them. He stares at them blankly. The stoic type, he finds, just like Shizu-chan. No wonder she wants the blond so badly.

“Does this have something to do with Shizu-chan?” she asks once she calms down, tears hinting at the corners of her eyes, “You guys are into some weird stuff, aren’t you?”

He’s genuinely at a loss for words.

“I lost a bet,” he decides, crossing his arms over his chest, “I hope work wasn’t too lonely without me there.”

She eyes him for a moment, but thankfully she allows the subject to change. He likes her the most now. Wonderful, easy-going Chiyo. He’ll destroy her life last.

“Hayashi-kun looked a little lost without you,” she sighs, grasping her fiancé’s hand, “Tomoko-chan thinks he wants you, but he’s dating that Kanra-chan girl, isn’t he?”

Tomoko might be too sly for her own good, but he reminds himself that she’s been obsessed with the idea of the two of them getting together from day one. She’s as bad as Erika, fussing over the two of them before they even understood their own feelings, and for all of the wrong reasons. Granted, she wasn’t wrong, but she wasn’t quite either. Neither woman can grasp the complications that have come along with years of anger and hatred melding into something a lot less violent.

“We need to get going, actually,” she pipes up, smiling brightly, “But there's one more thing I’d like to ask you.”

He tells her, sure, of course.

“When you go home, is Shizu-chan going to roleplay as the man?”

She doesn’t quite get her answer, as he immediately turns on his heel and begins to walk toward the hotel.

“I’ll see you at work then,” she cackles, “Better not let Hayashi-kun see you like that!”  


* * *

 

Shizuo is stepping out of the shower when he hears Izaya come in. He knows how the louse is dressed. He’d noticed that the uniform was no longer balled up in the corner of flea’s room when he’d checked to see if the other man was home when he’d gotten back from work.

But he forgot to warn Ota-san.

The sound of the older man sputtering is clear even through the boundary of the bathroom door. He winces internally, feeling suddenly moronic for forgetting to text the louse and tell him that Ota-san had stopped by for a visit.

 _“It’s just me, old man,”_ he can hear the flea jeer, more embarrassment in his voice than Shizuo thinks he realizes, _“Could it be that Butler-san has a schoolgirl kink? You don’t like little girls, do you, Ota?”_

Towel tied around his waist, he’s out of the bathroom in no time. Ota-san definitely doesn’t deserve to be on the sharp side of Izaya’s depraved wit. No one does, really, but Ota-san especially.

“Louse,” he barks, immediately gaining the attention of both men, “Can you go even five fucking minutes without being an asshole?”

Izaya smiles, so sweet that he almost feels bad for yelling at him. He’s faking it, however, and Shizuo knows this. Being cute will not excuse him from being a piece of shit.

“Aw, Shizu-chan, don’t be mean,” he giggles, winking as he smooths out his skirt, “Don’t be jealous just because Butler-san was trying to take a peek.”

Ota-san begins sputtering immediately. What a fucking headache. It’s been far too long of a day for him to be dealing with this right now.

“Go change,” he spits, “And cut that shit out. Ota-san brought dinner.”

Udon is waiting for them in the fridge, packed up in little Tupperware bowls that make Shizuo realize, abashedly, that Ota-san prepared the meal himself.

Izaya isn’t budging, however. He’s fiddling with the edge of his skirt, exposing just a little too much of his thigh for Shizuo’s mental well-being. Ota-san has turned away from the louse completely, busying himself with pulling dinner out of the fridge and clumsily attempting to reheat it in their tiny kitchen area.

“Shizu-chan hates seeing me dressed like this, right?” the louse questions, probably just mad that Shizuo turned his attention away from him for even just a moment, “I guess I’ll have to wear it for a little bit longer.”

He knows what Izaya is getting at. He and Ota-san both can feel how unwelcome Izaya is trying to make the older man feel. He’s already horny, so soon after everything that happened last night. What a pervert. What an absolute disgrace.

“Whatever,” Shizuo growls, trudging back into the bathroom to grab his clothes, “Nasty-ass louse.”

Izaya seats himself neatly on the couch, cocking his head to the side and brushing long hair behind his shoulder. Shizuo thinks he might go insane.

He slams the door with the least amount of force he can muster, scowling as the few items on the bathroom counter clatter about.

He pulls a fresh pajama shirt over his head, stepping into a cozy pair of pants and glowering at his reflection in the mirror. Izaya thinks he has everyone wrapped around his finger. What’s even more frustrating, he notes, is that it just might be the truth. Even Shizuo has found himself trapped in the bastard’s web. And now, he doesn’t even have the will to escape.

When he reenters the living room, Izaya is texting. Ota-san sets a reheated bowl in front of him and he ignores it. What an ass. Shizuo will eat both servings if he has to.

“Flea,” he seethes, dragging himself over to the couch, “Learn how to say thank you.”

Izaya glances up at him, then at Ota-san and the food before him. He sends Shizuo a feral grin, setting his phone down and leaning back against the couch.

“Butler-san, thank you for this food that I will promptly be throwing in the garbage. Your services are no longer needed, so please leave.”

Ota-san flinches, but says nothing. He doesn’t even look up as he places Shizuo’s food in the microwave.

He’s seething, fists shaking, balled at his sides. Who does this piece of shit think he is? Ota-san has done nothing but be kind to them! Just because the louse’s assistant ditched him the very first day, that doesn’t mean that he can boss Ota-san around and bully him.

He stumbles forward, jaw tight. Izaya simply sniggers as he’s grabbed by the front of his stupid schoolgirl shirt.

“Apologize,” Shizuo orders, shaking him slightly.

Izaya’s grin is contemptuous, arms dangling uselessly at his sides as he allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

“I’m not apologizing to a butler,” he laughs, eyes dark, “Do you know what he’s been telling his boss about us, Shizu-chan? Don’t you understand? He’s not here to help you. He’s here to keep an eye on you.”

He’s cackling madly as Ota-san slams the microwave door. There is nothing nearly as evil as Izaya’s smile painting the older man’s features, but he’s angry. The tremendous effort it must be taking for him to stay silent is impressive.

“Orihara-san,” he forces out, voice low, “Please forgive me, but you are not my boss. If Heiwajima-san wishes for me to leave, I will leave. However, you seem to be the only one upsetting him.”

The louse is silent right away, but his smirk stays in place. He’s a little hurt, Shizuo can tell. He can read those tiny cracks in his mask, can feel the way he stiffens beneath him. He hates being told that he’s not welcome. He despises being pushed away.

Shizuo groans, setting Izaya down gently. The louse is such a handful, but this is exactly what he signed up for.

“Ota-san, he’s going to eat. Louse, calm down.”

Izaya begins to tell him that he _is_ calm, but he’s cut off as Shizuo grabs a spoonful of Udon and forces it against his lips.

“You’re going to eat,” he says.

Izaya’s cheeks redden only slightly, but he takes a bite. Shizuo can tell that he’s hungry. Koizumi-san never seems to feed him when he sends him to do these jobs.

The informant takes the spoon from his hand, fetching the bowl from the table and eating quietly.

Shizuo wonders momentarily if this is how his mother felt raising him and Kasuka. His brother was always a good eater, finishing his food straight-faced with no complains. But sometimes they had spicy food or sour food for dinner, and those nights were always hard in the Heiwajima household. Getting Shizuo to eat anything he didn’t want to was surely a tall order.

Ota-san seems to calm down immediately. He smiles warmly at the blond as he hands him his bowl.

“Be careful, Heiwajima-san,” he warns, “It’s a little hot.”

And they sit together, watching the evening news. Shizuo is settled between Ota-san and Izaya. The older man begins talking about all of the fun places he brought his children over the weekend. He allows himself to talk about how good the cake was at the café. Izaya is silent, but he finishes his food.

The louse snags a finger in his pajama pants pocket. He pretends that he doesn’t notice, but as the night drags on, the gentle warmth of Izaya’s hand against his hip fills him with an emotion that feels weightless in his chest.

The moment Ota-san wishes them a good night and closes the door, he’s pulling the louse into a kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this story at 3AM where I am because I have kind of a busy day tomorrow and I wanted to get it published before the last episode came out! It's kind of a weird chapter. A lot of things are going on!
> 
> But the sex scene has finally been published! Izaya steals the title of "sex initiator"! Koizumi isn't... "quite" as awful! Maybe.
> 
> I had so many things to say about this chapter earlier, but now I'm on the brink of passing out...
> 
> This story is turning a month old on the 28th! It feels like it's been so much longer than that! I really, truly appreciate all of the attention it has gotten, and I know I keep saying it, but I hope as this story comes to an close, everyone will be happy with the ending! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I'll see you guys on Tuesday!


	10. Peeled Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snake devouring its own tail: each story ends at the beginning.

His first day back is nothing but a headache.

 _‘Tomorrow is another day off,’_ he tells himself, but knowing that Koizumi more than likely will not let him rest keeps him from finding too much relief in the thought, _‘Just a few more hours.’_

Clients have been calling non-stop all morning, demanding and angry as they struggle to make an order.

“I apologize, but we’re booked,” he’s said so many times that the phrase barely means anything to him anymore.

Shizu-chan hasn’t had it much better. He and Tomoko are out making their fourth delivery of the day. The kitchen staff is cursing so loudly that he can hear them all the way from his seat in the office. Each of the girls are scrambling about like mad.

Except for Chiyo, of course.

“It’s not my fault that I decided to get a degree in accounting,” she laughs through a mouthful of whatever she’s stolen from the kitchen, “Every day, my job is the same. Don’t hate me just because I chose the right career!”

Honestly, until this point, Izaya never really knew that any of them were being paid to do anything but type out emails. Apparently, however, Chiyo is the accountant.

He imagines her professors passing her just so they’ll never have to listen to her awful jokes again.

The phone rings again before he can think about it too much.

“ _Tomoko’s_ ,” he greets, jaw hurting from forcing such a terribly fake smile for so long,

 _“What a sexy voice,”_ the man on the other line all but moans, _“What are you wearing right now?”_

Twitching ever-so-slightly, he glances around the room to see if anyone else is paying attention. Chiyo is chatting with a frantic Bunko as Kyou converses with a client on the phone.

“How can I help you?” he questions, dread filling his chest as he listens to Koizumi’s insufferable laughter.

_“Well, you see, Maki-kun, it seems that Fukayama has called Tomoko-san today with a special request.”_

He already doesn’t like the sound of it.

 _“He’s asked if she can send over a worker to rearrange the dining hall,”_ he draws out, voice dropping a few octaves as it rumbles through the line, _“Specifically, a young, strong blond.”_

Izaya wonders if he should have been more concerned when Shizu-chan told him about interacting with Fukayama. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like such a big deal, but something about the tone of Koizumi’s voice tells him that maybe the blond might have deserved to be reprimanded.

 _“Were you aware that they’d met?”_ The old man asks, _“Did you know that Fukayama is interested in recruiting your little plaything?”_

He’s silent for a little bit longer than he needs to be. He isn’t sure how to phrase what he wants to say in order to not direct the girls' attention to himself. He thinks of the way Shizu-chan had glowered at the sidewalk as he’d told him what had happened. He remembers how on edge the blond had been all day after it had happened.

“What would you like for me to do about it?” he asks eventually, watching as the seconds tick by on his computer’s clock.

Koizumi breaths hard, allowing his heart to sink in the silence.

 _“You’d better hope you’ve trained him well enough,”_ Koizumi answers, voice low, tone sharp, _“If he can manage not to ruin everything… this could be very good for us.”_

The line dies.

 

* * *

 

  
Shizuo isn’t sure what he wants to do.

Tomoko-san dropped him off nearly thirty minutes ago, telling him that Fukayama had requested his help specifically.

 _“He said his staff is having trouble moving the dining tables around quickly enough,”_ she’d explained, _“And he remembered you from last time, so he must have noticed what a good worker you are!”_

She’d seemed so proud of him. The thought of it still causes an odd discomfort to spread over him. Tom-san is so kind and so patient, but Shizuo has never felt as though he’s made the other man proud. Kasuka tolerates his outbursts, Ota-san smiles gently despite how terrified Shizuo knows he is. He can’t think of the last person who wanted to show him off, to tell everyone, _“Yes! I know Heiwajima Shizuo!”_ and the thought of Tomoko-san feeling so satisfied with having him on her team…

It’s a little embarrassing.

_“Don’t get any ideas though! He might be an important client, but I’m not letting anyone steal you away!”_

His ears are burning from the memory of it alone.

A few members of the staff scoffed when he’d finally arrived, muttering among themselves about such a scrawny waif thinking that he’ll be able to do anything helpful. He’d barely remembered to count backwards in his head, only the thought of Izaya’s face last night helping him ignore the familiar, angry tremors that had worked their way through his muscles.

 _“Sh-Shizu-chan,”_ the louse had moaned, a needy, writhing mess in his bed with that damn skirt hiked up around his waist, _“Please.”_

They might have ended up messing around a lot, but he can’t focus on that for too long without tarnishing his fake identity in a completely different way.

Instead, he focuses on hoisting one of the tables over his head.

“Where does this go?” he asks simply, looking between each member of the staff.

He doesn’t understand why none of them can speak. They stare at each other—a dozen horrified men and Shizuo standing awkwardly with a three-meter-long buffet table resting innocently against his shoulder.

Then, he realizes. He feels moronic, forgetting that most people (unlike the girls at the catering company) understand that it’s not normal for a person to be able to lift such heavy things so easily.

“Ah, this is… really heavy. Please tell me where it goes.”

That’s it, he thinks. He’s covered his tracks well enough.

They’ve moved over half of the tables around when Fukayama appears—as cocky and punch-able as ever. His bodyguards swarm around like flies as the staff each bow. Shizuo forces a nod, but his back refuses to bend. He can feel resentful trembles working their way over his muscles.

“Well, if it isn’t Tomoko-san’s handsome blond handyman,” he croons, winking in a way that causes a vein somewhere above Shizuo’s eyebrow to bulge, “I hope you’re showing these guys how it’s done.”

He draws nearer, pushing past two of his burlier men to rest only centimeters from Shizuo’s face. His eyes are tiny coals, a fire somewhere deep within burning with something all-too familiar. Unlike the other man, whose eyes sparkle in the darkness like muddied diamonds, Fukayama causes nothing but rage to stir in his gut. It’s hard to control himself, but he thinks of Izaya scraping his nails along his back, digging greedy teeth into his shoulder so hard that he’d woken up to find a bruise purpling against his skin.

“You’ve considered my offer, correct?” the other man asks, and he’s wrong. Shizuo’s almost completely forgotten about it, “I promise, I can afford to pay you far more than what that woman has to offer.”

Fukayama can sense the monstrous blood that pumps through his veins. He might not understand how strong he is, but the slime-ball has definitely been paying attention. He falters, worrying suddenly if Koizumi-san will be angry with him.

“Thanks, but no,” he huffs, taking a step back as the space between them begins to feel entirely too close for comfort, “I’m not interested.”

Fukayama chuckles, turning on his heel and waving a hand behind him.

“You’ll change your mind,” he calls, the arrogance in his voice rattling through Shizuo’s bones, “I think we might end up becoming great friends, Hayashi Yukio.”  


* * *

   
Finishing up the very last phone call, Izaya cracks his back. He didn’t even get a chance to take a break today. His stomach grumbles, as though to complain, and he hopes Shizu-chan is nice and hungry too. If he hasn’t murdered Fukayama and blown their cover already.

 _‘You have some competition.’_ Koizumi texts. He doesn’t even want to think about what that means.

His phone vibrates again before he has to.

_‘Fukayama is pursuing your little monster. This could work out very well for us.’_

He’s sure Koizumi means this in a professional sense, but the mere thought of another person vying for the blond’s attention causes something unsightly to stir inside of him. Suddenly, he finds himself even more eager than before to watch the lowlife’s entire world go up in flames.

Shizuo is wandering toward the building right as Tomoko locks the door.

“Hayashi-kun,” she calls, waving eagerly as the brute nods, tired, “I hope things went well?”

He shrugs. Koizumi seemed pleased enough. Surely the rogue bodyguard sent him intel already. If Shizu-chan had given anything away, Izaya’s phone would be blowing up with angry texts.

“You’re not thinking of transferring, are you, Hayashi-kun?” he questions, raising a brow as the brute shoots him the most incredulous of glares.

Tomoko flinches.

“No, I’m not,” Shizuo interjects before she has a chance to start freaking out, “He’s a prick.”

Their boss isn’t the only one taking a sigh of relief, and Shizuo seems to notice this before he can stop himself. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He shouldn’t be feeling flustered by the idea of the idiot knowing how he feels.

After last night, after this entire week, it’s no secret that there’s something going on between them that won’t go away when they get home.

“Oh, by the way,” Tomoko pipes up, suddenly excited, “Some of us are going out to eat now. The girls are going to meet me at the restaurant. Would you like to come along?”

Shizu-chan looks doubtful. It sounds like a really bad idea, but his stomach betrays him—growling especially loud at the mere thought of dinner.

Then, as though the brute can sense his utter mortification, he betrays him as well.

“Sure,” Shizu-chan speaks, frustratingly meek, “That sounds nice.”

They’re sitting inside of Tomoko’s car minutes later—Shizuo manning the passenger seat, of course, while Izaya masks his grumbles from the back.

Tomoko begins to talk about her boyfriend. She tells them that he works at a news station as an editor. He’s apparently very handsome and she needs to fight off plenty of beautiful women all the time.

“I feel for your girlfriends,” she laughs, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, “My boyfriend is cute, but I can’t imagine how hard it is to keep an eye on men like the two of you.”

Izaya doesn’t particularly like the way she says it, but he lets it slide. There are no implications behind her words, he reminds himself. She is not trying to insinuate that they’re cheaters.

Although, if she knew what they’d been up to last night, without realizing that Kanra-chan and Shizu-chan aren’t real, he wonders if she’d still be joking around.

“There aren’t a lot of girls who are interested in me,” Shizuo adds quietly, watching buildings pass by through the window, “So Kanra-san has nothing to worry about.”

Tomoko laughs, asking why he would refer to his girlfriend so formally. He doesn’t reply, but his cheeks color in the most charming of ways.

“You’re intimidating, Hayashi-kun,” she sighs, smiling at the blond, “You always look so serious. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course! But you’d probably be surprised by how many girls are secretly checking you out.”

The brute doesn’t reply to that. He gives no indication that he’s heard her at all. She chuckles regardless, meeting Izaya’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

“And you too, Maki-kun,” she chirps, “You’d better be nice to Shizu-chan! The poor girl probably had to do a lot of work to get your attention!”

Shizuo clears his throat.

They arrive at a bar soon after, finding an open parking spot and pulling in.

“Kyou-san is bringing a date, by the way,” Tomoko warns.

It’s already noisy all the way from the sidewalk, and he chances a glance at Shizu-chan to see how he’s fairing. Bars and nightclubs are common places to find his debtors, and Izaya wonders if the loud music is bringing back unpleasant memories.

But Shizuo only looks nervous. Stupid brute. What does he even have to be worried about?  


* * *

   
Izaya is drinking.

Three glasses of something neon-colored and reeking of alcohol later, Shizuo thinks someone might need to cut the louse off.

“L-listen Chiyo,” Izaya slurs, arm over the girl’s shoulder as he spills some of his drink, “Let me tell you… something about S-Shizu-chan.”

“Oh no,” Chiyo laughs, eyes sparkling with drunken mirth as she leans into the louse, “Are you gonna tell me somethin’ dirty, Maki-kun?”

Izaya snorts at that, downing another gulp as Shizuo looks awkwardly around the table. Tomoko-san doesn’t seem too bad yet, but Bunko-san is resting her face on the table. Kyou-san and her date disappeared hours ago. He doesn’t want to think about it.

He’s drank maybe three sips of the disgusting mixed beverage in front of him. He wishes he would have refused their offers and just ordered water instead. It’s not his money, but it still feels wasteful.

“Shizu… Shizu-chan is just… so cute,” Izaya garbles, cheek pressing firmly against Chiyo’s, “Y’know… She told me… that she loved me… Isn’t that so cute?”

This is a nightmare.

Chiyo is hugging the louse now, telling him how happy she is for him, how much he deserves a good life.

“B-but, Maki-kun,” she stumbles over her words, closing her eyes as though that might sober her up, “did you tell her that you love her too?”

Shizuo rises from his seat, ignoring the way that Tomoko-san asks if he’s okay. His ears are burning. He needs some air.

Izaya watches him lazily as he leaves. He’s not sure what the louse is going to tell Chiyo once he’s gone.

It’s chilly outside. He places a cigarette between his lips, lighting it slowly and relishing the feeling of the smoke filling his lungs. He can’t put a finger on what he’s feeling right now. Izaya looks happier than he ever has before—each of his carefully crafted walls tumbling down with only the help of a copious amount of alcohol, but he knows the idiot will regret it tomorrow.

He’s thankful that they’re off for a couple of days. The louse will surely be nursing a hangover and a wounded ego.

He remembers however, that he did in fact confess to the bastard. Everything is happening so fast. He’s barely given himself any time to sit down and really think about everything he’s done. The realization doesn’t particularly surprise him. In that moment, with the informant shivering like a leaf in his arms, he really did love him. And in other moments as well: packing up the tables after the family reunion, watching television with Ota-san last night, snuggling together in bed until Izaya’s alarm went off this morning.

He’s never felt this way about anyone else. The urge to squash the pest still persists, but… maybe not so desperately anymore. Sometimes he thinks of the bastard messing around in Ikebukuro, and instead of feeling that familiar surge of anger striking through him, he wants to simply pick him up and carry him away. Back home, maybe, where he can make the asshole forget what he was even plotting in the first place.

“Hayashi-kun,” Tomoko-san’s voice calls as she pokes her head around the corner, “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a long time, too flustered to say anything.

She comes to rest against the wall next to him, pulling a carton of cigarette from her purse and lighting one between her lips.

“Does it bother you when Maki-kun talks about his girlfriend?” She questions.

Before he can argue, she cuts him off.

“I know you have a girlfriend, but I also know that you feel something for him. It’s okay.”

He sends her a hard stare, huffing in frustration as he forces himself not to get too worked up.

“Yeah,” he breathes finally, glowering at all of the cigarette butts and food wrappers lining the sidewalk, “I like him.”

She rests a hand on his arm and he resists the urge to flinch away. Her smile reminds him of his mother, of the feeling he gets when Celty’s smoke puffs outward when she greets him. He likes Tomoko-san more than he’s comfortable with. Somewhere in Ikebukuro, his mom is getting ready for bed. She might have called Kasuka today, but not him. He hasn’t spoken to her in months.

Sometimes he wonders if she likes to pretend that Kasuka is the only Heiwajima child.

“It’ll be okay, Hayashi-kun,” she all but whispers.

He nods. She really doesn’t understand at all. This silence of his is not because of hurt. He didn’t leave because he was upset.

He might just be falling too hard. Sometimes he finds that he can’t look at the idiot louse for too long without wanting to kiss him.

They smoke together for a while, Tomoko-san saying very little and him saying even less. Even though she’s misunderstood everything, he still enjoys standing around with her, being close to another person who likes him despite all of his very obvious flaws.

“Does Kanra-chan know?” she questions eventually.

They watch a few cars roll by. A small crowds stumbles along, singing an off-beat tune and laughing jovially.

“Yeah,” he lies. He has no idea what else to do, “We broke up.”

Before she can reply, he adds, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

He already comprehends what sort of drama would erupt if the other girls were to catch wind of it.

She nods in understanding, putting out her cigarette against the wall and tossing it in a trashcan nearby. He mimics her movements.

“Well, I’m still here if you need to talk,” she offers, reaching up to pat his shoulder, “You’re a good guy. He’d be crazy not to fall for you.”

When they make their way back into the bar, Izaya and Chiyo are talking about something…

Actually, he can barely understand what they’re saying at all.

“H-Hayashi-kuuuun,” Chiyo coos, reaching forward across the table toward him, “Maki-kun thinks y-you’re not a virgin, but you’re savin’ yourself for marriage, aren’t ya?”

Tomoko-san begins stammering right away. He stares, wide-eyed between the louse and Chiyo, regretting coming back at this very moment more than he’s ever regretted anything in his life.

He chooses to ignore her, taking a sip of his room-temperature drink and sending Tomoko-san a pleading look.

“Chiyo-san,” their boss cries, frantic, “T-that’s really not appropriate!”

The short-haired girl cackles, shuffling around in her seat and dragging Izaya along with her movements.

“Oh T-Tomoko-chan,” she sings, hugging the flea tightly against her, “Maki-kun says he’s not… and I’m not… and you’re not… So who cares if Hayashi-kun has done it already or not..? C’mon Hayashi-kuuun, I’m sure we could fix that if you want.”

He fixes Izaya with a glare, setting his glass down harder than he means to.

“I’m not,” he barks, hands shaking as he places them in his lap, “So drop it.”

Izaya giggles, hiccups, then winks at him clumsily.

“I told you,” the louse draws out, pulling away from Chiyo to take another drink, “Hayashi-kun is just… too hot.”

He’s the only one who appears to be mortified, even though Tomoko-san sends him a pitying smile. This is such a mess. What a horrible idea. He shouldn’t have ignored the signals the louse was sending off earlier. He should have declined Tomoko-san’s invitation.

They drink for another hour or so before they each part ways. The bar is closer to the hotel than work, and he’s thankful for that as he declines Tomoko-san’s offer for a ride home.

Izaya is slumped over his shoulder, gripping at him loosely as he drags the moron toward the hotel.

“You drank too much,” he murmurs, lifting the louse as his feet drag against the ground.

Izaya doesn’t reply, but plants a wet kiss against his cheek instead.

“Shizu-chan is so cute,” he soothes, eyelids drooping, “Shizu-chan… is such a cute monster.”

By the time they make it back to the hotel, he’s carrying Izaya bridal-style. It’s too late for much of the staff to be wandering around, and the doorman barely bats an eye as he lets them in.

The louse is slumbering peacefully in his arms. He’s so un-intimidating like this. It’s hard to imagine him waving that stupid knife around or ruining anyone’s lives.

It’s difficult to get the door open, but he eventually does. As he closes it behind him, not even bothering to turn on the light, he wonders where he should dump Izaya for the night. On one hand, he isn’t looking forward to waking up tomorrow with a blade against his throat, but he also wants to be around if the bastard starts getting sick.

He carries Izaya into his room, sliding the door open with his foot and stepping forward to set the informant down in the bed. He slips the jacket from Izaya’s shoulders, pulling his blanket over the other man’s body.

Then, he leaves to take a shower.

When he returns, Izaya is mumbling in his sleep. He can decipher only his own name. He climbs in behind the flea, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in dark, glossy hair.

“Izaya,” he hums, enjoying the way that hair tickles against his nose, “Good night.”

The louse shivers in his arms. He kisses the back of the idiot’s head.

And eventually, he falls asleep.  


* * *

 

  
When Izaya awakens the next morning, he barely makes it into the bathroom in time to vomit.

Shizu-chan is watching TV in the living room. The blond says nothing as he gags, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl and groaning miserably.

His head is killing him. He’s starving, but even thinking about food makes him feel like vomiting again. Shizu-chan looks comfortable enough, so he curls up next to the brute on the couch, squinting through the light pooling in through the curtains as the noise of the television rattles inside of his skull.

“You drank too much,” Shizu-chan says simply.

He scowls.

“I did.”

Shizuo rises from the couch, padding over to the mini fridge and digging around inside of it. Izaya mourns the loss of his warmth, but even in the fuzz of a hangover, he can still appreciate the sight of the brute leaning over into front of him.

The blond closes the door, rising again and squeezing back into position. He presses something cool against Izaya’s aching forehead.

“Here,” he prompts, “Drink it.”

It’s a can of ginger ale. He takes it, chest tight with something he’s not quite sober enough to name, before snapping the cap and taking a long drink.

They watch the news for a while until Shizuo changes the channel. He settles on the beginning of an action movie. The hero jumps from a burning building with a child in his arms. He zones out to it after enough time passes, and he stifles the most horrifying of groans as he feels fingers starting to work their way along his throbbing scalp.

He dozes off after that, awakening only when the sun begins to set outside of the balcony window. He’s still on the couch, wrapped up in Shizuo’s comforter as he spots the brute smoking outside. He hasn’t changed out of his pajamas, and Izaya discovers belatedly that he’s not wearing his uniform anymore either.

Did he change earlier and he just doesn’t remember it, or…?

Shizu-chan turns and meets his gaze through the glass. The brute isn’t even halfway done with his cigarette, but he puts it out and tucks it away in that silly little envelope of his. He makes his way over to the door and slides it open.

“You’re awake,” he greets, placid as ever, “lazy-ass louse.”

He’s feeling much better already, but he still frowns at the beast distastefully. He hates wasting days like this, especially the first real one he’s had off in weeks, and he hopes that Koizumi spares him tomorrow as well. He’s put more than enough hours into this job. He deserves to rest.

“I ordered room service,” Shizu-chan deadpans, closing the door behind him and trekking over to the fridge, “There’s sushi in here for you.”

His stomach gurgles at the thought, finally ready to accept food.

Shizuo fetches the to-go container for him, grabbing him another ginger ale and settling beside him on the couch. The TV is still blaring, some thriller that he’s seen before, and he wonders if Shizu-chan even pays attention when he turns these things on.

What does the brute think of if he zones out? Does he contemplate what he’ll do when he gets back home? Does he find himself missing all of the friends that are surely impatiently awaiting his return?

Izaya finds himself thinking of his empty apartment and all of the files Namie will probably neglect to sort until the last day. It leaves an unsettling weight in the depths of his belly. It’s never bothered him before, being alone. He’s thrived in the absence of human contact for so long, but now…

What will he do when he returns?

He begins to eat, if only to ignore the ugly sensation churning inside of him.

There’s a creature on TV that tears through the unsuspecting city. People are screaming, dying, scrambling for safety.

 _“Monster!”_ one of the characters screeches, and he can’t bring himself to disregard the way that Shizu-chan twitches at the word.

The brute’s eyes are glued to the screen, brows low as his mouth spreads in a tight line. Izaya wonders how he feels about it, if he’s been numbed to the word, or if it still _“hurts his feelings”_ like Shinra had claimed so long ago.

Shizuo changes the channel.

He pretends that he doesn’t notice the sound of the plastic crunching between the blond’s fingers.

They settle on a romance. Shizuo’s eyes don’t leave the screen as a man announces his love to a beautiful woman. They begin to kiss as dramatic music plays. The man drags his lips along the woman’s neck. It’s implied that they’re making love, and only then does the blond tear his stare away.

“Could it be that Shizu-chan wants to do that sort of thing with me?” Izaya teases through a mouthful of sushi, “Is that why you’re studying that dirty movie?”

Shizuo turns to glare at him, shaking the couch with his movements. They maintain eye contact for a few beats of time, neither making a move to speak.

The brute relaxes then, muscles slacking as he lets out a long breath.

“I’ve already done those things to you,” he replies simply.

And it’s enough anyway. Izaya doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Especially not while he’s eating.

When he finally finishes his food, it’s dark outside. The character in the movie is proposing to the beautiful woman, and Shizu-chan isn’t even looking at the television anymore. Izaya sets his soda and the to-go container on the table, rising to his feet and smirking down at the brute.

“Shizu-chan,” he breathes, hands on his hips, “It’s a little hot in here, wouldn’t you say?”

The blond stares up at him, confusion lingering in the corners of his frown.

Izaya makes his way toward the bathroom, hand on the doorway as he turns to send the brute the most innocent of smiles.

“The pool should be closed by now. Why don’t we see if they forgot to lock it again?”  


* * *

   
He almost can’t believe his eyes, but the staff really did neglect to lock the door a second time.

They’re both dressed in bathing suits that the louse found buried in the bottom of their dressers: Shizuo in red trunks and t-shirt, Izaya donning a roomy sweater and a dark pair of bottoms that only accentuate those tantalizing thighs.

It’s dark again, the reflection of the water creeping along the ceiling in a way that causes an erotic sort of nostalgia to overtake him. Izaya removes the sweater, allowing it to slide from his shoulders onto the wet concrete, craning his neck to send Shizuo the most delectable of grins.

Wordlessly, the louse dips a toe in the water. He continues to send Shizuo little looks, as though challenging him somehow. Shizuo considers pushing him in as payback for before, but he can’t quite bring himself to move.

The meager shine of the security lights plays along the paleness of Izaya’s skin. His nipples are hard, dark shadows against the light, flesh illuminated in a mesmerizing glow of porcelain against the blackness of the room. His eyes twinkle—tiny, jagged stones. As he begins to lower himself into the water, Shizuo can barely make out the creases of shadows along thin shoulders. He can see the shallow ridges of his spine bending as he carries himself down into the pool.  

Izaya twirls around in the water, his mirthful laugh bouncing against the walls around them.

“Shizu-chan,” he beckons, hand outreached toward the blond, “Don’t tell me you’re just going to stand there.”

Finally, he forces his legs to work, stumbling toward the pool and pulling his shirt over his head. He spares the door one final look, wondering if security will even be willing to stop them if they catch them in here again.

He doesn’t test the temperature like the louse, simply lowers himself down, hands on the edges of the pool, and hoists himself into the shadowy depths.

Izaya is on him in seconds, cold hands against his shoulders, lips pressed against his own. He knew this was going to happen. He’s been waiting for it since the louse dipped into the bathroom. Something about the skip in his step gave him away. He’s become addicted to this fire between them—both of them have.

They’re burning together, and neither is willing to make a move to put out the flames.

The flea is being particularly handsy right away, cupping the slowly-growing bulge in his trunks and pressing hard against him. He palms the informant’s ass, breath rattling out of him as he struggles not to throw the bastard over the edge of the pool and tear his bathing suit down to his ankles.

Izaya mewls against his mouth, kisses slipping along his jaw as he grinds into the blond.

“Shizu-chan,” he sighs, black eyes boring right into Shizuo’s frantically thumping heart, “M-my sweater—the pocket.”

He’s not sure what to make of that, but he pulls away nonetheless, thanking his parents for his long arms as he reaches across the concrete and grabs the edge of the sweater. Something inside of it clatters against the floor as he pulls. Inside, the bottle of lube from a few nights before is sticky inside of the pocket, and he swallows the thick lump in his throat as he realizes—skin crawling with heat—that Izaya had purposefully made a trip into the bathroom to fetch it.

The informant smiles at him, and it’s nothing close to the evil, conniving grins that he’s grown so accustomed to. Color lines the other man’s pale, glowing cheeks. His eyes are unguarded, dark and open, as though Shizuo might drown inside of them if he leans in too close. He’s trembling with need, waist-deep in the pool and wading forward like a shark seeking prey.

“Shizu-chan,” he lulls, tipping his head back as his takes the blond’s face in his hand, “Don’t be too gentle, okay?”

They’ll be booted from the hotel if they’re caught. The signs along the walls read: _‘No Running’_ , _‘No Diving’_ , _‘No Food’._ While _‘No Fucking’_ isn’t specifically listed, he’s sure it’s a rule that goes without saying.

The louse practically climbs into his arms, silent save for small gulps of breath as Shizuo’s hands find their way to his backside again. He hoists the smaller man up against the edge of the pool. He’s not quite sitting, not quite being held up either, and he wraps his legs around Shizuo’s waist as the blond plants soft kisses along his collarbone.

Somehow, Izaya ends up with the bottle, and he’s dripping lube between his fingers before Shizuo can even calm his jittering nerves enough to notice.

“My trunks,” he whispers, staring down at the blond, “Could you—“

Shizuo grasps the edges firmly, not needing to be told twice. He tugs them downward, gulping back a groan as Izaya’s erection bobs outward, droplets of water dribbling from head down the shaft and disappearing in the shadows of his abdomen. Izaya can’t even laugh at him before his mouth is around it, hungry for those little noises, for the salt of sweat and the bite of chlorine.

Izaya hisses, long and low, dragging oily fingers through his hair.

“S-Shizu-chan,” he gasps, “L-let me—let me get ready.”

He’s pointedly ignored, choking out a moan as Shizuo begins to bob his head. When the blond is ready minutes later, the louse is so overcome with the sensation of it that he’s sprawled out, bent awkwardly over the corner of the pool as his hair soaks up the puddles on the concrete floor.

Shizuo takes the bottle from his trembling hands, uncapping it and pouring a copious amount over his digits. The darkness casts deep black lines along Izaya’s legs, obscuring his thighs and the aching hardness between them. Shaking off his nervousness, he presses his fingers into those thighs, watching Izaya carefully for any hint of pain. He lets his hands wander, ghosting over the louse’s erection and sliding downward toward his ass.

Without so much as a warning, he slides a finger inside, reveling in the way Izaya curses at him, needy and eager and lying when he pretends that he doesn’t want it fast and hard.

Shizuo won’t be rough with him on purpose, but he will give him this.

One finger becomes two, and soon Izaya is rocking his hips forward and back, fucking himself on Shizuo’s fingers lazily as the blond stops moving his arm at all. When he removes his hand, it’s only the lather the remaining lube along his own erection, grasping the bottle (from where he’d forgotten it, floating at the surface of the water) and squeezing a little more out for good measure.

Izaya eyes him from under damp bangs, refusing to move from his uncomfortable position, half laying back and half straddling the pool’s edge.

Shizuo rests his hands against each of the louse’s knees, falling forward and allowing his erection to rest at the other man’s entrance. They stare at each other, Izaya’s chest rising and falling shallowly, Shizuo shaking with want. And then, he pushes in.

It’s tight and it’s hot and the feeling of it has him seeing so many blurry colors that he barely notices as Izaya pulls himself upward and clutches him, desperate and eager.

He pulls out halfway, pressing in again soon after, picking up the pace only as the pain in Izaya’s breathing melts into pleasure. His hand squeezes between them, finding the louse’s erection and pumping it to the rhythm of his thrusts. Izaya’s little noises puff warm air against his cheek. He finds himself whispering sweet words into the louse’s ear, not entirely sure what he’s even saying as pressure builds deep inside of him and he battles the urge to finish right then and there.

“S-Shizu-chan,” Izaya whines, limber figure quivering against him, “I—I lo—“

And before he can finish his sentence, he’s jerking back, splattering hot cum against their bellies and sputtering muddled curses.

Shizuo can feel it though—in the way he writhes, the tightness of his grip—he knows the words that the louse was struggling to tell him. The thought alone sends him over the edge.

He’s not so shy. He grinds out a sharp, _“I love you”_ as he cums inside.

They breathe together for a stretch of time—seconds, minutes, he’s not so sure. It doesn’t matter, because Izaya is kissing him again, cupping his face as his vision clears. He doesn’t even stop the smile that spreads along his lips.

“My back,” Izaya’s voice breaks through the echoes and the darkness, “is going to be killing me tomorrow.”

And he laughs, Izaya laughs, and they’re kissing again before they scramble at the sound of footsteps.  


* * *

 

  
It’s Sunday morning and Shizu-chan is massaging shampoo into Izaya’s hair.

Okay, rewind. This scene is far too domestic.

They’d found themselves a tangled web of limbs and chlorine-cracked skin on the living room floor. Shizu-chan’s hair was green again. Izaya hadn’t even attempted to stifle his laughter until he’d realized, horrified, that the reek of pool chemicals was coming from the both of them and not just the brute.

They’d argued about who got to take first shower. Shizu-chan was determined that it was his right, as the unsuspecting victim last night, and while his utter denial had caused more laughter to rumble through Izaya’s throat, he was definitely not willing to give up the chance to stop smelling like sour laundry as soon as possible.

He’d rushed to reach the bathroom first. As he was gloating, having left the monster in his dust, Shizu-chan had simply pulled open the door and climbed in behind him.

 _‘Alright,’_ he tells himself, recounting each of the exhaustion-blurred events in his head, _‘That’s better.’_

Once his hair is clean, the brute begins to wash his back, dragging a luffa along his skin so gently that he wonders if he’ll need to wash himself again just to feel clean. He never would have imagined that those calloused monster fingers could touch him so softly, and he’s only a little disappointed when he finds few new bruises dotting his skin.

 He hopes Shizu-chan doesn’t expect for him to reciprocate. He’s not willing to raise himself on the tips of his toes to reach that grassy, mangled mop of his.

When his back half is clean enough for the brute’s tastes, the luffa is traveling forward along his hips, dropping down between his legs as he flinches in the monster’s arms.

“Shizu—“

“You’re filthy, louse,” Shizu-chan growls, voice low and gravely. The sound of it so close to his ear causes his cock to twitch.

Shizu-chan deflowers him in the shower. They move out to the bathroom floor. Before they know it, they’re both heaving in slowly-spreading puddles on the tile as Shizuo fumbles with the knob to turn off the water.

“You’d better be careful, Shizu-chan,” he hums, dragging himself to a seated position as he shoots the blond a sly smile, “You won’t be able to get wet anymore without getting excited.”

Shizuo scoffs, grabbing a towel from the rack and drying his hair. He tosses the other down to Izaya, clicking his tongue at the green hue of previously blond locks as he eyes himself in the mirror.

“I’ll just find you if that happens,” he states matter-of-factly, “It’s your damn fault anyway.”

Izaya takes a moment to imagine himself doing paperwork or talking with a client on the phone. Shizu-chan barrels in, huffing and soaked with rain-water as he stalks toward his desk. He knocks everything off with one flick of his wrist and takes the informant roughly on the glossy surface of it.

He decides that maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, if the brute were to remember once they return home.

“We should get breakfast,” he interjects, not as sneaky about changing the subject as he hoped he’d be, “It wouldn’t do if I fainted in the middle of the next round, would it?”

Shizuo shoots him a skeptical look, but nods.

“Dye my hair first.”

He wants to tell the brute that he should have done that first, but it’s not worth it. His tiny protozoan brain would surely implode if so much sense was rained down on him at once.

It only takes an hour to dye Shizuo’s hair. Once it’s done (after he finds himself watching the way the blond’s muscles move as he works the dryer through his freshly lightened locks), they’re dressed and heading out into the warmth of the morning.

He resists the urge to grasp the other man’s hand. He isn’t even entirely sure where that came from, and it’s discomforting to think that such a disgusting thought would squirrel itself away in his brain. Regardless, they walk close, chatting idly about _Tomoko’s_ and how they think Kyou’s date the other night might have turned out.

“I’m sure she’ll be telling us about a weird birth mark on his shoulder tomorrow,” Izaya chuckles, spotting a diner further down the road which looks promising, “She’s picky—so much so that she’ll never find a man who lives up to her standards but is also willing to put up with her.”

Shizuo looks displeased with his words, but says nothing of it. He must be learning how to pick his battles.

They find their way into the diner. The hostess greets them cheerfully and he makes easy small talk as she leads them to a table by the window.

“Let me know if you guys need anything,” she winks, setting down their menus.

“Oh, I _definitely_ will,” he breathes in reply, enjoying the flush that paints her cheeks and the way Shizu-chan twitches in the corner of his vision.

When she shuffles away, swaying her hips a little extra in search of his attention, Shizuo grumbles and flips through his menu.

“Not really your type, is she?” the brute murmurs, eyes glued to the pages crinkling between his fingers.

There’s obvious jealousy in his words, and Izaya focuses on that. These ugly feelings—hatred, envy and rage—these are what compose this monster. He’s a violent hurricane of a human being, a vindictive force that tears through the concrete walls of their helpless city back home.

And yet, here he sits: shoulders slumped as he searches for something sweet on the menu, surely unaware of how Izaya’s skin has yet to stop tingling in all of the places he’s touched him. He is capable of so much more than anger, so much more than hurt, and this sudden understanding is incredibly grounding.

“Shizu-chan,” he calls gently, so much softer than he’s ever spoken an honest word in his life, “She definitely isn’t my type.”

Shizuo looks as though he might smile, but he coughs instead, burying his nose in his menu to mask his embarrassment.

The waitress finds their table and they order drinks. When she returns, Shizu-chan chooses a big breakfast, and while Izaya makes a jab at him about it, he finds that maybe he should too. His stomach aches with hunger.

Once she leaves, Shizuo has fixed him with a tense expression, jaw tight as his eyes travel around Izaya’s face.

“Listen,” he grumbles, fingers playing at the edges of his glass, “You’re still thinking that we’re going to forget all of this when we get home, aren’t you?”

Izaya pauses, unsure. He is thinking that, of course. There’s really no other way for them to be. How will Ikebukuro survive without the two of them fighting? What will all of Shizu-chan’s friends think if he comes back, hand-in-hand with the city’s most hated informant?

“Well, Shizu-chan, of course—“

“I won’t forget it.”

He’s so shocked that the smirk he’s so carefully set in place doesn’t even have a chance to leave his lips, heart fluttering nervously as he searches the brute’s expression for something—anything—that could indicate that he’s lying.

“That’s not practical,” he replies eventually, awkward and dumb.

But it’s not. There’s no way people wouldn't mess with them. In Ikebukuro, the throngs of gangs who would be after their heads would only double—ignorant hatred blinding all reason as they sought out him and the brute. Shizu-chan could take care of them easily, yes, but would it be worth it? How many hate crimes could Shizuo thwart before he finally confessed, _“Izaya, you’re not worth it.”_

It’s such an unsightly blemish on his thoughts, vulnerable and insecure. The beast has stripped away his walls and left him naked here, struggling to understand why anyone in their right mind would stoop so low as to fall in love with Orihara Izaya.

And so, this must be some sort of trick. Ruses, he is familiar with. Deception, he can understand. But love? Oh no, that doesn’t suit him at all. No piece of him can comprehend why humans feel the need to fall for each other.

“So?” Shizuo spits, flustered and stubborn as always, “Do you think I give a shit about what’s practical and what isn’t? I don’t care if you think it’s going to mess with your work. We’re not forgetting this when we get home.”

His eyes widen, pulse drumming in his veins as he forces himself not to look away. He needs to fabricate a mask. He needs to keep the monster in the dark about how much these words mean to him.

And why do they mean anything at all? He’s Orihara Izaya! He should be laughing in this idiot’s face!

“Don’t argue with me, louse,” Shizuo adds hurriedly, stare hard as his voice rumbles across the table, “Or I’ll kiss you in front of everyone right when we get there.”

Before he can retort, the waitress arrives with their food. His stomach groans at the scent of it.

Shizu-chan is walking a narrow line. If he isn’t careful…

Izaya might end up being the one falling (in love, with him).

He chooses to ignore that thought.  


* * *

   
With full stomachs, the two of them make their way along the sidewalk. They’re not too sure where they’ll go, but Izaya says that this town has plenty of attractions—shops, movie theaters, parks, and clubs—and they’re bound to find something if they wander around.

He’s zoning out, looking at all of the people passing around them, when the informant stops. He’s looking through the window of one of the many stores lining the street, eyes glimmering slyly at something through the glass.

It’s a jacket, hanging snugly around a mannequin’s shoulders. It’s black, of course, with dark fur lining the inside. On the breast pocket, there’s a tiny, white button shaped like a cat.

He’s more surprised than disgusted at the louse’s poor taste. It’s a woman’s jacket anyway. Does the flea really have no regard for gender when he purchases his clothes?

Before he can articulate any sort of rude comment, Izaya has him by the sleeve. He pulls him through the doors of the store, smiling at the woman who greets them.

“The jacket in the window,” he sings, chipper and disingenuous, “Do you still have it in stock?”

And when they leave, Izaya is humming a light tune, swinging his new find in its shopping bag at his side.

Regardless of how gaudy he thinks the stupid thing is, he has to admit that watching Izaya’s _very genuine_ excitement at the sight of it was… It was very cute. Maybe the cutest thing he’s seen in a long time.

Eventually, they find themselves in front of an aquarium. Izaya pulls at him excitedly, going on and on about moray eels and stingrays in a manner which Shizuo knows is only being played up to piss him off.

“Come on, Shizu-chan,” he laughs, pulling him further, “Or are you afraid that all of the water will get you worked up?”

He allows himself to be tugged inside. They’re padding through tunnels of glass, staring up at all of the colorful fish swimming around, and all he can really focus on is Izaya’s eyes.

The sunlight filtering through the water reflects white against the informant’s pale skin, sparkling in those beautiful irises like thousands of tiny stars in the night. Children giggle with their parents, couples chatter and argue, families traverse through the crowd around them. But to Shizuo, it’s only him and the louse and so much noise muted in his ears.

Izaya turns to look at him, midway through telling him some useless trivia about a certain kind of sea turtle. He falters, confused despite the way he tries to hide it.

“Shizu-chan?” he calls, reaching out and placing a hand on the blond’s forehead, “Don’t tell me you’re actually getting worked up.”

And he pulls the informant into a kiss, hands on the other man’s hips, focusing on the warmth of his skin and that horrible louse smell that makes something deep inside of him swell with need.

He’s only vaguely aware of the sound of someone yelling, and promptly after, they’re kicked out of the aquarium.

Izaya doesn’t tell him off or pout, but his resounding laughter is punishment enough.  


* * *

   
At the end of the day, they find themselves back at the hotel.

They’re sitting on the balcony, Shizu-chan smoking a cigarette as Izaya texts Shinra.

 _‘At least you guys aren’t fighting!’_ the doctor sends.

It seems as though home is a completely different world, separate from this paradise in which they currently sit. The sun slowly sets behind the canvas of skyscrapers, the sky painted orange and yellow as night tears gradually through the clouds.

_‘Of course not. Even Shizu-chan isn’t stupid enough to ruin this job.’_

It’s more than that, of course, but Shinra doesn’t need to know. Nosy Celty definitely doesn’t either.

Shizuo is staring blankly out into the city, serene as Izaya as ever seen him as he takes a long drag. He’s not particularly excited to return to work tomorrow, but somehow, he’s okay. Today was such a blur of pleasant experiences, and it’s becoming less and less surprising to admit that.

Tucked away in their hotel room, spending long nights together and hiding away at work so they can eat lunch in private, Izaya finds that they’ve found themselves a happy routine. He thinks of Heaven, of Valhalla and an afterlife waiting for him somewhere over the clouds.

If he were to wither away, this might be it: the blurry, unreachable image of what he’d always hoped to attain after death. Just sitting here, loving and beloved, no matter how much the thought causes him to cringe in embarrassment.

“Shizu-chan,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair and setting his phone to the side, “What will you do when you get home?”

Shizuo ponders his words. He takes another drag.

“We’ll go to Russia Sushi,” he says, putting a certain emphasis on the word _‘we’ll’_ that sends shivers down Izaya’s spine, “And maybe get some cake. Vorona and I found a really good place.”

Izaya laughs only because he can’t think of anything else to do. What a gross monster, thinking he would ever lower himself to parading around with a beast.

He doesn’t even want to think about what Simon would say.

“Listen,” the brute says suddenly, tone low as his eyes harden in the dwindling daylight, “I knew that Ota-san was spying on us.”

Izaya doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to, because Shizu-chan continues only moments later.

“When I got that bouquet with the gross note, I knew he had something to do with it. Sometimes he asks questions about you that are really specific and I know he’s going to tell his boss. I know Koizumi-san is the one harassing you too.”

Horror strains the oxygen in Izaya's lungs. He struggles to compile a lie, to hold his mask in place. He wants to tell the brute that he’s an idiot, that he couldn’t be more wrong, but he’s worried that the monster will jump to his feet at any second and barrel through the city in search of their perverted boss.

“He made you wear that uniform,” Shizuo adds quietly, fists clenched as his cigarette is crushed between his lips, “He’s gross, and I’ll kill him when we’re done with this job.”

The informant really doesn’t know what to say. He settles back into his seat, mulling over all of those times that Shizu-chan surely had him all figured out and didn’t say a thing. The brute is far too sharp sometimes.

“And Ota?” Izaya asks finally, rejoicing as his tone remains smooth and confident.

Shizu-chan’s gaze casts down against the ground, brows knitting as his muscles slowly slacken.

“He’s not a bad person,” the blond mutters, putting out his cigarette and fetching the envelope from his pocket, “He’s just doing his job.”

Shizu-chan is kind. The realization twinges in his chest. He values the job of a sneaky old butler over his own right to privacy, allows this man to pick through his life and report each of his secrets. The brute will let this Ota-san carry on in peace, and while every part of Izaya tells him that he should drop it, he’s not sure if he can let the man walk free after everything he’s caused.

It’s completely dark outside when Izaya receives a text message from the one number he was hoping not to see until tomorrow.

 _‘Pervert’_ blinks on in screen. He can already feel the lazy joy from the day creeping away in lieu of bitterness and annoyance.

_‘You’re taking tomorrow off, so get ready. I have a job for you.’_

He’s already tired, already eager to climb into bed with the brute and slink into comfortable sleep. The thought of leaving now is so exhausting that he can barely pull himself up.

 _‘No schoolgirl uniform this time, I hope.’_ He sends, pinching the bridge of his nose. Shizu-chan can sense his unrest immediately.

 _‘Of course not,’_ Koizumi replies, _‘I have something much better for you to wear.’_

Annoyance is replaced with dread, and he can’t even bring himself to kiss the blond goodbye—no matter how much his frown is begging for it.  


* * *

   
Once Izaya is gone, Shizuo drags himself back inside of the hotel.

He looks around, tired but suddenly restless. It doesn’t feel right, filling this space entirely alone. The flea-scent has faded to a mere memory. He resists the urge to sleep in the louse’s room tonight.

Of course, he’s known for quite some time that the old man has been harassing Izaya, how could he not? Izaya tells him that finding out who the pervert is could ruin their job and he’s not supposed to connect the dots? How stupid does the bastard think he is?

Sighing, he pads toward the fridge for a bottle of milk.

He knows the answer to that question already—Izaya definitely thinks that he’s the biggest idiot around.

He drinks an extra bottle of milk for good measure, wondering idly if the louse has changed his mind since then or not. He’s a moron, sure, he’ll be the first one to admit it, but Izaya can’t deny that his instincts are sharp.

He doesn’t even want to consider what he’ll do to their boss.

In his fantasies, he’ll hand the old man over the money, take a deep breath, and tear the heaviest item he can from the wall to impale him.

But—that won’t work. Neither of their bosses will be paid until they get home.

He begins to contemplate how much money a plane ticket would cost, if the time and effort and days off from work would be worth letting off some steam. Maybe he’ll just rough Koizumi up a bit, but then he’s not particularly interested in getting the Yakuza on his back, no matter which district they reside in.

He’ll have to do something… Maybe… he’ll come up with something scary to say. He’ll threaten the old bastard and instill the fear of Heiwajima Shizuo in his heart— _‘Oh God, please no! Not the Monster of Ikebukuro! Why did I ever mess with this guy?!’_

Seems fair enough: horrible words in exchange for horrible words. As far as he knows, all that Koizumi has done is send the louse dirty messages, so… maybe just scaring him would be enough.

The entire idea of it gives him a headache, so he decides to ignore it for now. He has the rest of the week to formulate the perfect intimidation tactic. Maybe he’ll ask Izaya for advice.

He heads into his room to change into his pajamas, running a hand through freshly-dyed hair while muttering potential lines under his breath. Is _kill_ better than _maim_? What about _disfigure_?

_‘If I ever catch you texting Izaya again, I’ll give you a lobotomy with a rusty stop sign.’_

Nah, too wordy.

_‘Fuck with the louse again and they’ll be peeling your brain matter from your brand new carpet.’_

Possibly, but it’s a little cliché.

His mind is such a jumble of different threats by the time he pulls the blankets over himself and slides into bed that he can barely remember to set his alarm. He thinks of Izaya slinking around in the dark, wearing God-knows what, speaking with people he’d never want to know. It’s the louse’s shtick, but the idea of it still fills him with an unfamiliar dread.

Izaya can take care of himself, he tells himself, he’s a grown man. A slimy, conniving, smelly grown man.

Somewhere in the night, he hopes Koizumi-san is at least keeping the louse safe.

He considers texting Ota-san, but his assistant speaks so cryptically about his boss and Izaya's part of the job. He’s sure he would leave the conversation with more questions than answers.

Instead, he texts Celty.

 _‘I’m falling for him.’_ He says simply, and he knows it’s more than enough.

He drifts into asleep slowly, calmed by the incessant vibrating of his phone each time she sends him a new text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since yesterday was the one-month anniversary of this story, I wanted to write a long chapter! This one is just a little under 10k, but I knew I couldn't carry on without really overshooting the goal. So I hope you guys are okay with reading so much!
> 
> So... Five more days left in the story! How exciting is that? I can't believe this fic is actually coming to a close so soon! And Shizuo has known so many things all along. Good instincts, Shizuo! 
> 
> And we return to the pool! I really can't resist pool scenes, or sappy sex scenes in general. They've really gotten a little carried away! These boys need to calm down.
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was a lot of work, but each section was extremely enjoyable to write. This story, although long, has been so rewarding! I hope it has been for you guys as well.


	11. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there's smoke, there's fire. Where there are monsters, there are probably also fleas.

Izaya can barely see anything as he pulls himself up onto the ledge of the semi.

Koizumi has been sending him instructions via a tiny earpiece hidden beneath the bandana obscuring his face. As of thirty minutes ago, he’s resorted to nothing but dirty jokes and breathy noises that cause every hair on the back on the informant's neck to stand on end. Eventually, he just shuts the stupid thing off. 

The job is simple enough anyway.

Fukayama is a moron. That much has been apparent since the very beginning. Any man who decides that it’s a better idea to hire shady bodyguards than to simply pay the Yakuza back what he owes them might be even too dull for Izaya’s tastes. 

He finds himself sneaking around in the gated garage where Fukayama keeps three large shipping trucks. Within bags and bags of clothing, Koizumi claims there will be drugs. He’s to steal only a single bag, to collect photos of any evidence he can find. These will then be presented to Koizumi’s higher-up, who will decide a suitable punishment for bringing such things into their territory.

Pulling a heavy pair of bolt-cutters from his backpack, Izaya struggles to cut the lock on the truck. It snaps eventually, and his muscles are already aching. This job is definitely better suited for a brute like Shizu-chan.

His thighs squeak each time he tries to walk. He feels like he’s been air-locked, claustrophobic within his own clothing as he struggles to move around.

He’d really thought that the schoolgirl uniform was the worst the old man could do, but this current get-up has him feeling constricted in so many unmentionable places that he can’t believe he could squeeze into it at all.

He pities Celty suddenly, even if she’s actually chosen to wear hers. He’s sweaty and he’s chafing in places that he never thought could chafe. The leather bodysuit makes high pitched noises with every movement, and he’s just begun to stop getting startled by it.

 _“Heiwajima-san thought you two would be secret agents when he took this job,”_ Koizumi had laughed, presenting the horrid thing as though Izaya should have been overjoyed to accept it, _“So I thought maybe you should look the part.”_

He pulls the door upward, flinching as the sound of it grinding against the roof echoes throughout the abandoned garage. The inside is packed with boxes. He takes a moment to tuck the bolt-cutters back in the bag, digging around until he finds a box cutter. Everything is just a little harder to grip with leather gloves on. He hates fumbling. Clumsiness has never been a word one would use to describe Orihara Izaya.

Finally, he allows himself to use the headlamp, feeling utterly ridiculous even here in the dark, completely by himself.

The first three boxes yield no results. He reseals each of them with various tools, impatient and miserable, yearning to tuck himself into bed and forget that any of this ever happened.

At the bottom of his fifth box, there’s a single bag of hard, white material. Koizumi told him not to _“sample”_ the product, and even the thought of it makes him click his tongue in disgust. As though he would. The old man really doesn’t know him at all.

He slips it into his bag, resealing the box and moving on to another.

Six boxes later, he’s  collected enough pictures to leave the truck. He’s not sure what Fukayama will do about the broken lock, but knowing the idiot, he might not even warrant it worthy of investigation.

He takes one last, long look into the truck before he pulls the door down. He snaps a photo of the license plate, of the truck number, and of every corner of the room. This should be enough. The pervert is waiting for him a little ways down the road. Belatedly, he remembers to turn off the headlamp.

When he arrives at the exit, he punches in the code (8531, Koizumi reminded him so many times that he’s sure he’ll be saying it in his sleep for months). The doors creak upward slowly, and only then does his heart begin to drum at the sound of voices not-so-far in the distance.

He’s under the doors in seconds, slapping the _‘close’_ button and racing off into the night.

It’s a long walk before he sees headlights drawing closer. He’s taken off the bandana and the headlamp, tucking them away in the backpack and wondering if he should have pushed the idea of bringing a change of clothes. He’s not sure if he could squeeze out of this horrible outfit if he tried.

Koizumi’s car rolls to a stop. He cocks his hip to the side, waiting as the chauffeur exits the vehicle and wanders around to open his door. These unnecessary formalities grew old days ago, but he knows the old bastard will probably lock the door on him if he tries to reach for the handle himself.

When he squeezes himself into his seat and the door is closed behind him, he drops the bag between them on the floor.

“The drugs?” Koizumi questions simply, brow cocked and smirk insufferable as ever.

“One bag, just as you requested,” he draws out, matching the old man's smile as he leans back in his seat, “Photos of each of the vans and the drugs inside of the shipping containers.”

Something sinister sneaks its way into Koizumi’s eyes. He reaches a leathery hand forward, dragging the zipper down and reaching into the bag.

“This is very good, Orihara-san. However, it seems that you’ve forgotten something.”

Izaya can feel his brow twitching already. His grin is tainted with disgust, but he doesn’t falter. He crosses one leg over the other, waving a hand dismissively in the air.

“You’ll have to ask Shizu-chan if I can send you a picture,” he croons, maybe just a little too excited to flaunt his winning hand, “Since he’s got you all figured out.”

Koizumi laughs, but he can sense it—

His nervousness, his mortification, and Izaya revels in it.  
  


* * *

   
Through the fog of sleep, Shizuo can barely make out the sound of something shuffling around.

There’s a stench in the air. While he scrunches his nose, he can feel a warmth inching along his skin. He’s lying on his back, bleary-eyed at he listens to footsteps padding along the floor. Only when he feels a weight upon his lap does his vision focus on a figure sitting before him in the dark.

“Shizu-chan,” the louse whispers, leaning close enough that his breath ghosts along Shizuo’s cheeks, “I need your help.”

His words are so velvety smooth that it takes the blond a moment to register that he’s asked for assistance at all. He’s dazed, half asleep and slightly aroused, and Izaya can’t possibly blame him for getting lost in those shadowy eyes.

“Shizu—“

“Y-yeah, help, I got it. With what?”

Izaya eyes him for a moment, smirking through the darkness as his fingers poke nervously into his chest. Wordlessly, he shuffles around so that his back is facing the blond instead.

“The zipper,” he sighs, seeming a little strained, “It’s too far down. I can’t get it.”

When he reaches forward to grasp it, he’s surprised to find leather at the tips of his fingers. His eyes adjust to the low lighting, and he realizes (as certain parts of him become embarrassingly hard with the louse in such a good position to witness it) that the bastard is dressed in a very familiar leather bodysuit.

“What the fuck is this?” he spits, and Izaya twitches above him.

The flea definitely doesn’t fill it out like Celty—he doesn’t have the curves. But the way it clings to him, as though painted on top of his skin, is enough to send every drop of blood in his veins from one head to another.

“This is your fault,” Izaya grits out, gripping at his thighs a little too tightly, “Secret agents? Really? How stupid are you?”

Pulling the zipper, he scoffs. How was he supposed to know that their perverted bastard would use his words against the louse? It’s Izaya’s fault for being such a cocky bastard! If he wouldn’t parade around, swaying those fucking hips of his and being so ridiculously fuckable—

He shakes his head. It’s far too early in the morning to even be thinking about things like this.

“There. Get off.”

Izaya shoots a glare over his shoulder, struggling to pull himself off of the bed. The leather rubs noisily. It takes every ounce of his self-control to ignore it.

He rolls over onto his side, ignoring the sound of the louse undressing so close by. He’ll sleep all day tomorrow, Shizuo is sure. He knows that bastard hates messing up his sleep schedule. He’s strangely particular about things like that, and he wonders if Koizumi-san might have forced him to work so late on purpose.

He seems determined to throw the flea off of his game.

For what reason, he’s not sure. Wouldn’t it be pertinent to his goal that both of them are in top shape in order to finish the job?

Izaya is digging around in the dresser, he can hear it. After a moment, the flea slinks toward the bed, lifting the blankets and crawling in behind him. He turns then, coming to face the other man. Izaya is wearing one of his shirts. Even under the blankets, it’s a little too loose around his shoulders.

He tells himself that this means nothing and the sight of it doesn’t affect him at all.

Izaya sends him a sly little smile.

It’s definitely too early in the morning for this.  
  


* * *

 

  
It’s late in the afternoon by the time he wakes up.

It’s annoying, waking up so late, but at least the bed is still warm. Shizu-chan left for work hours ago. He’s convinced himself that he’s already forgotten about the disgusting little kiss that the brute had planted on his forehead this morning.

Pulling himself out of bed, he tries not to focus on his bedhead in the mirror across the room. His stomach grumbles, throat dry, and he nearly trips over the leather monstrosity that lays tangled at the foot of the bed.

Breakfast is leftover sushi and a bottle of water. He eats on the couch, staring at the blank television screen as he listens to his cellphone vibrating against the nightstand in Shizu-chan’s bedroom.

He showers once he’s finished eating, brushing his teeth, wishing for a scale, staring just a little too long at his reflection in the mirror. This daily routine is boring without a monster hiding somewhere on the other side of the door.

He hates that he might be missing the idiot.

When he finally makes it back into Shizu-chan’s room, he’s missed three texts and a phone call.

Koizumi tells him:

_‘The job was a success. Thank you for your help.’_

_‘And about that picture.’_

He deletes the messages.

There’s also a text from Shinra and a missed call from Shizuo.

_‘Hey, is something going on over there? Celty isn’t telling me anything.’_

He ignores Shinra’s message for now, irritation bubbling in the pit of his chest as he realizes that he has no idea if anything important has happened or not. He has no clue what Shizu-chan might have said to her.

The phone rings as he holds it up to his ear. Within moments, Shizu-chan picks up.

_“Have you eaten?”_

He blinks, unusually dumbfounded. The brute is just determined to get on every single one of his nerves today.

“Yes, I did,” he draws out, watching his reflection as he pushes wet bangs out of his eyes, “Thank you for your concern, Mama-chan. Is that all?”

Shizu-chan growls, and he laughs at the sound of something creaking and breaking in the background of the other line.

_“Fuck you, Tomoko-san wanted me to bring you some soup.”_

He’s definitely not disappointed that Shizuo wasn’t worried about him. There’s no reason why a thought like that should even occur to him. He presses a hand against his forehead, wondering if the sushi might have been spoiled.

“Well, I’ve eaten, so Tomoko-san can rest easy.”

Silence spreads out between them. He thinks of hanging up, but something stops him.

 _“Listen,”_ Shizuo murmurs, _“Shizu-chan texted me earlier. She said you weren’t answering her messages.”_

He raises a brow, humming in recognition. What is the brute getting at?

 _“She uh,”_ he fumbles with his words, suddenly breathless, _“She wanted me to tell you that she loves you.”_

He hangs up quicker than he’s ever done anything in his life, pulse bursting in his ears.  
  


* * *

   
Tomoko-san laughs as he stares at the _“call ended”_ notification on the screen of his phone.

“Maki-kun is a bit of a tsundere himself, isn’t he?” she laughs, and while his cheeks line with color, he manages to nod in agreement.

He thinks that maybe it should hurt, being hung up on when saying _“I love you”,_ but there’s something else entirely fluttering between his ribs. The flea bastard definitely isn’t the type to say things like that casually, he knows.

But he also knows that Izaya heard him, and if he didn’t feel anything, he wouldn’t have hung up.

He can’t stop the small smile that works its way onto his lips as he gets back to work.

He takes the garbage out, cleans the bathroom, vacuums and helps the cooks move things around in the kitchen to clean. They’re all talking about some TV show that he’s never heard of, and he stays quiet for most of the time.

“Hey, Yukio-kun,” one of the men calls, stirring something that smells delicious in a big pot across the room, “That’s okay, right? If I call you Yukio-kun?”

He’d almost completely forgotten his fake first name, and he falters for a moment before nodding. One of the other men finishes scraping grease from under the fryer in his hands, and he lowers it slowly as the guy pulls himself away.

“That sneaky bastard, Maki-kun,” the man continues, pausing only to sample whatever it is that he’s preparing, “He has a girlfriend?”

He doesn’t like where this is going at all, but he agrees. Numbers begin counting down in his head before he even tells himself to stay calm.

“Damn, I was sure he was a fruit,” he laughs, oblivious of the dangerous twitch of Shizuo’s brow, “He’s still a weirdo though, isn’t he? Always looks like he’s up to something.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

He moves to the next fryer, lifting it as gently as possible as the other cook climbs underneath. They talk about Izaya for a while after that. They seem to each get a creepy vibe from him, and Shizuo decides that he can’t blame them. If more people could sense the obviously sinister intentions of the little migraine on legs, the world might just be a brighter place.

“Tomoko-san seems to think that the two of you have something going on, doesn’t she?”

A different cook proposes the question, and suddenly all of the tenseness that’s just left his muscles returns tenfold.

“Man, she’s just gross though,” another man jokes, “She sees that rat bastard Maki-kun giving Yukio-kun some weird looks and she gets the worst ideas. You know how she is.”

Everyone is laughing at that, and he feels like he’s missing some part of the joke. Has Tomoko-san done this to other people before? All this time, he’s thought that she could read them so well, but is she just a fangirl? Is she just as bad as Karisawa-san back home?

The kitchen is clean soon after. He can’t say that he’s disappointed when he’s allowed to leave the cooks behind.

Tomoko-san asks him to move some furniture around in the front room. The day passes slowly, but after hours and hours of tedious tasks, they’re locking the door and he’s making the trip back to the hotel alone.

He’s staring at the floor of the bus, wondering what they’ll eat for dinner, when he hears a tiny voice calling out to him. He looks up and around, settling his gaze on a little girl and an old woman. The girl waves excitedly, and it only takes him a moment to remember her face.

The girl who smiled at him the first day he rode this bus home with the louse.

Her grandmother is shushing her, and he sends her a little wave, hesitating before returning her smile.

He’s changed so much since that first day, he muses. He’s excited to return to the hotel. He’s already making plans to eat with Izaya. He wonders if he looks any different to the girl, if he’ll seem different to Celty and Tom-san and everyone else back home.

When he reaches his stop, he nods goodbye. She grins, elated, just like before.

He wonders if Izaya feels these changes as well. The louse seems different, but that might just be because they’ve never really talked. He’s always known things about the bastard—where he prefers to slink around, how quickly he can run, the best spots to land a punch—but he’d never taken the time to really get to know him. The idea that Izaya is a human being with feelings just like everyone else would have confounded him just a few weeks ago.

Now, he understands those feelings, can read them easily, and he knows exactly which buttons to push to rile him up.

The hotel comes into view.

Just as he reaches the front doors, a long, sleek black car pulls to a stop next to him. He turns, staring down at his reflection against the glossy surface of it.

A window in the back rolls down slowly.

“Heiwajima-san,” a deep, rumbling voice bellows out into the air between them, “Just the man I’m looking for.”

In the darkness of the gradually-setting sun, he can barely make out the leathery skin and crooked smile of the man inside of the vehicle.

“Please,” he calls out, pausing only to open the door, “Come join us.”  


* * *

   
It’s been an hour since Shizu-chan was supposed to return to the hotel, but somehow, he’s looking around, and he brute is nowhere to be found!

What an idiot.

It’s bad enough that he’s been dreading seeing the beast since that horrible phone conversation earlier, but when he’d finally worked himself up enough that he might have been able to face the other man without instinctively reaching for his knife, the protozoan didn’t show.

He’s sent a single, painful text message. He’d felt his insides rotting away with each tap of his fingers against the touchpad.

_‘Are you finally dead?’_

It was a cruel thing to say, but it had felt more like a dirty love confession.

Shizu-chan, however, doesn’t seem to take the bait. He doesn’t reply at all. Izaya has checked his phone for new texts so many times, held it high above his head, wandered around the room and watched as the signal changed only slightly. He decides, if only to make sure that his service hasn’t cut out, to answer Shinra’s message.

_‘Everything is peachy. Shizu-chan is still a stupid monster. Could it be that you’re worried about me, Shinra?’_

It’s a long time before even the idiot doctor responds. He’s starting to think that maybe Namie forgot to pay the bill. Only when he’s ready to switch to another phone does it finally vibrate.

It’s Shinra. It's not a disappointment. 

_‘Well, Celty seems to think that you guys are doing a lot more than just fighting.’_

Each of those letters strung together, forming a sentence so ugly that he can barely comprehend it—it leaves the most disgusting flavor on his tongue.

He types and retypes a few different messages before he can think of the right thing to say. Shinra is perceptive, far more than he lets on, and he’ll see right through Izaya’s deception if he isn’t very careful with the way he words this.

_‘My apologies, but I have no idea where she might have gotten an idea like that. Maybe your headless monster should stop hanging around Dotachin’s group so much?’_

Good enough. There are a lot of holes in which he can already feel the doctor prying, seeing so much deeply into things than he should be allowed to. His oldest friend is that for a very good reason: he is far more conniving and sinister than Izaya could ever hope to be.

Innocent, only because he exclusively uses these traits to manipulate his inhuman housemate into loving him.

This time, his phone vibrates almost immediately. He’s already dreading the message, but what lies inside is worse than he could have ever imagined.

_‘It’s a little silly to deny how you feel after all this time, isn’t it?’_

Shinra is not his oldest friend. To Izaya, he is dead.

He drops his phone on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. A long sigh pushes itself from his lungs. There’s a migraine working its way from the base of his scalp upward, toward his forehead. He can feel the painful tingles of it creeping around within his skull. Shinra always manages to pick his grubby fingers into Izaya’s safely guarded heart. He’s seen those little looks that the informant has been sending the moronic brute even since high school.

He knew when he asked them to get along that Izaya would refuse. If only to spare himself from rejection. If only to spare himself from the painful annoyances of love. 

How irritating. What a horrible friend, setting him up for an agonizing lifetime of failure, of chasing and of running away, of never feeling joy quite like being pursued by a monster wearing human skin. Pairing him up with the only person who can read him better than Shinra himself. 

His phone vibrates again.

_‘Working on a job. Be home late.’_

It’s from Shizu-chan. It's not a relief.  


* * *

  
Shizuo finds himself dressed in normal clothing.

 _“I would like for you to do a job for me,”_ Koizumi-san had drawn out as he’d shuffled into the open seat across from the older man, _“This job requires more brawn than I imagine Orihara-san is capable of.”_

He was already on edge by the time the door closed behind him, but when the old pervert had reached for a shiny black shopping bag to his side, Shizuo hadn’t been able to control himself—tearing the seat belt from the wall. The crunch of shattering plastic had started all three of the other men (Koizumi-san, his bodyguard, and the chauffeur who had veered the car a little too hard left at the sound), and no one had moved for a solid minute.

 _“I’m not dressing up,”_ he’d snarled, allowing the limp belt to fall to the floor from his trembling fists, _“Save that shit for the louse.”_

Koizumi-san had laughed then, not without a nervous titter in his tone.

_“Of course, Heiwajima-san, but you’ll need a different top.”_

The bag contained a single, plain black t-shirt. He’d felt only slightly embarrassed for overacting as he pulled it out and examined it.

But now he’s standing in a small, stuffy room behind the pervert, itching to light a cigarette to calm his jittery nerves.

There’s a boisterous, incredibly large-bodied man laughing from the couch across from them. He’s talking to Koizumi-san as though he’s a child. The older man doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles, he jokes around, but there’s an obvious tenseness hanging over them in the smoky air. The big guy is puffing at a cigar, rolling it around between his meaty fingers and looking over a pile of pictures on the dirty glass surface of the coffee table before him.

Three men stand behind him, the bulge of guns pushing out the material of their jackets at their waists.

“So the blond you’ve brought,” this man—Koizumi’s boss, he assumes—questions, a certain twinkle in his eye that makes Shizuo squirm in discomfort, “This is the Orihara Izaya who took these photos?”

Koizumi’s smirk is undeniably cocky. He seems as though he’s been waiting for this exact moment since they got here nearly an hour ago.

“Orihara-san is at the hotel. This is Heiwajima Shizuo.”

His boss cackles at that, throwing his head back as laughter roars through him. His belly jiggles, fat fingers gripping tightly at the photos and his cigar.

“This twiggy pretty-boy is the vicious monster you’ve been telling me about this time? Please, Koizumi, do you need to get your eyes checked?”

Anger pulses through him at the words. His cheeks burn, blood rushing behind his ears as he stumbles over the numbers in his head.

Think of Tom-san, he tells himself. Think of Celty and Vorona. Think of that goddamn rat bastard louse.

Koizumi steps to the side, extending his arm as though to invite Shizuo forward. He hesitates, barely getting a handle on his rage, before taking a cautious step toward the gigantic lump of a man.

“Heiwajima Shizuo, huh?” the guy chuckles, setting the papers back down on the table and leaning back against the creaky springs of the couch, “You think you’re a tough guy? What exactly did you do to earn the title of _‘The Monster of Ikebukruo’_?”

He snaps meaty fingers, and one of his men steps forward. He pulls a rusty pipe from somewhere on the floor. They’ve planned this, Shizuo thinks. They’ve been waiting to test him all along.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He isn’t angry enough for that.

The bodyguard slinks toward him, brandishing his weapon, muscular arms flexed in a way that Shizuo thinks is supposed to be intimidating.

He takes a moment to look back at Koizumi-san, hoping that the older man will say something to stop this. He’s uncomfortable, more so than he wants to admit. He hates violence. He despises the idea of using his horrible strength to show off.

Midway through his pleading look at the old pervert, the bodyguard raises the pipe high in the air, bringing it down over Shizuo’s head with a resounding _‘crack’_. He stumbles under the force of it, folding at the shock of metal digging into his scalp. His vision blurs for a fraction of a second as rage bursts in his chest.

Blood beads at the cut. He can feel it, damp against his hair. He reaches a hand up, pressing it to the wound as he staggers to stand up straight.

“You waited until I wasn’t looking,” he hisses, sending the man a steely glare and drinking in the fearful way in which he backs up, “You thought you could take a cheap shot like that and impress your boss? You went right for my head.”

The big boss isn’t smiling anymore. Shock paints his features, surely taken aback that Shizuo is still standing after being struck over the head. The blond can barely even comprehend it, however, through the hazy red at lines his conscience.

_“…Do you have a death-wish?”_

Koizumi-san lets out a startled (yet somehow still impressed) hum behind him. The man charges forward with the pipe, shaking but pumped up with adrenaline. Terrified, but mistakenly brave.

Shizuo grasps the end of the pipe, dragging the man forward and flinging him across the room.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellows, turning on his heel to glower right up into Koizumi-san's maddeningly smug face. He isn’t smiling now. He’s backing away.

He can feel the air shift behind him, and when he turns, a different bodyguard is coming at him with a knife. He punches the man so hard that he shatters through the dusty window across the room.

The last bodyguard makes no move to challenge him. He raises his hands in defeat.

Shizuo shoves Koizumi-san out of the way so roughly that he nearly topples over.

“Fuck this,” he howls, the door almost ripped from the hinges as he throws it open, “If someone is called _‘The Monster of Ikebukuro’_ , don’t mess with them, you fucking dipshits! Is everyone in this city an idiot?!”

Wood cracks under his fist as he slams the door closed behind him, shaking with the need to destroy something, to get as far away as possible, to go back to the hotel and clean the blood from his hair. He wants nothing more than to eat cake and fall asleep watching movies with Izaya.

He doesn’t know where he is, but he chooses a direction to walk in and he hopes it will bring him home.  
  


* * *

 

He’s dozing off to one of Shizu-chan’s stupid movies when he hears the handle of the door rattle. There’s muffled cursing coming from the hall. Just as he’s rising to unlock the door, there’s a very ominous _‘crunch’_ and and the brute stumbles into the room.

“Fucking door, fucking hotel, fuck—“

“Shizu-chan,” he presses, horrified as he watches the door swinging back open, even though he knows for a fact that the monster closed it all the way behind him, “You... broke the door.”

The brute is trembling with rage. He sends Izaya a look that is painted with too many emotions to name. There’s blood trailed along his forehead, slowly flaking and damp with sweat. He’s shaken. It’s obvious in the way he moves, how he refuses to sit down and can’t quite decide where he wants to go first.

He didn’t… _kill Koizumi_ , did he?

His phone vibrates before he can question it. Shizu-chan isn’t heading anywhere anytime soon, so he risks a look at the screen. He’s surprised by how relieved he is to see _‘Pervert’_ blinking on the screen.

_‘Your monster might be a little riled up.’_

It’s definitely an understatement, and he can’t help but be bothered by the words. What happened? What could have Shizu-chan so bloody and so distressed? Where’s his work shirt? Why is he so sweaty and dirty?

“Shizu-chan, okay, come here,” he soothes, slightly nervous about confronting the brute in this state, “You’re gross. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

The blond allows himself to be tugged through the doorway and across the tiled floor, sitting obediently on the closed lid of the toilet as Izaya fetches a wash cloth from the cabinet and wets it in the sink.

There’s no reaction when he begins pressing the cloth against the top of his head, crimson soaking into pristine white as he cleans away the blood. There’s an ugly gash beneath red-soaked blond. Shizu-chan is huffing out tiny breaths that sound a lot like numbers being counted down backward.

“I hate violence,” he chokes, hands fumbling with his pocket as he attempts to grasp his cigarette carton, “I don’t—“

“I know, Shizu-chan. You don’t like fighting. I know.”

It’s a little curt, but it calms the brute regardless. He’s finally able to place a cigarette between his lips and light it, and Izaya doesn’t even bother telling him not to smoke with someone else so close by.

He wonders if this is how he always leaves Shizuo after their fights—if he blanks out like this, struggling to compose himself as anger and hatred rattles through his bones and aches along overworked muscles.

Shizu-chan barely feels bodily pain, but something in the way he’s mumbling hints that maybe he might be hurting somewhere else.

He wipes the blood from the brute’s forehead, brushing sweat-frizzed hair out of his eyes. There’s dust caked in the fluids on his skin. He smells like he’s rolled around in an ashtray.

After some time, Shizuo has settled down enough to drag himself into the shower.

They don’t speak for the remaining hours of the night, but when they eventually curl up in bed, the brute pulls him close just a little bit tighter than usual.  
  


* * *

  
Morning comes, and Izaya is nowhere to be found.

The bed is cold by the time he wakes up, and it takes him a moment before his blurry brain allows him to slide out onto the floor. He scratches his head, scoffing as his fingers return with hints of blood under the nails. What a fucking mess.

When he opens the door, he’s greeted with the sight of something so unholy that he nearly closes it again and goes back to bed.

Izaya is wearing nothing but his boxers and a frilly, pink apron that Shizuo would be hard-pressed to figure out where the Hell he found it. He’s cooking something on the stove—or burning it, really, if the smell is any indication—and he turns to send the blond a wink when he hears him come in.

“Shizu-chan, good morning,” he sings, dragging a big, plastic spoon through the pan, “You were so mopey last night. I thought a nice domestic scene would help you cheer up.”

He’s mortified. There is some ulterior motive here, he knows it. Izaya’s legs are long and milky as ever. His hip is cocked to the side. His ass moves around beneath his underwear as he titters about, and Shizuo chances a look at the clock as he considers turning off the stove and fucking the moron on the counter.

“You’re into this kind of thing, aren’t you?” the louse croons, sending him the most frustrating of smug smiles, “You want a big sister to take care of you, hm? To make you breakfast and kiss you goodnight? How perverted, Shizu-chan.”

Anger slowly building inside of him, he trudges forward, careful not to knock the other man against the hot stove as he grasps him from behind.

“You’re not that big,” he huffs, drawing his lips along the other man’s neck, “And you’re not a sister.”

Izaya doesn’t reply to that, but Shizuo can feel the heat on his skin. He can see the ramen in the pan, already burned in some places and still hard in others. He’s not sure how such a useless person has managed to worm his way into so many different conflicts around Ikebukuro. He can’t believe that this same person—someone who manages to butcher instant soup—has evaded even his most precise of punches with ease for almost a decade.

He digs his teeth into the spot where the louse’s neck meets his shoulder, drawing his tongue over the indentations and sucking at them gentle. Izaya wriggles in his arms. He’s pretending that he doesn’t notice. He stares into the pan as though it’s the most interesting human he has ever laid eyes on.

His fingers find their way to the front of the flea’s apron, dragging it upward along his thighs. Izaya lets out a soft, shaky breath, biting his lip as the spoon scrapes against the bottom of the pan. All of the water has evaporated. He’s frying the ramen.

Shizuo palms the growing lump in the front of the louse’s underwear, nibbling little trails across his shoulder. Izaya leans against him. Small clouds of smoke bellow up into the air.

He pulls the informant’s erection out, drawing his palm along the length of it, smearing precum against the head.

And then, the fire alarm begins blaring.  
  


* * *

   
They’re almost thirty minutes late for work.

He doesn’t want to think about the hotel staff bursting through the broken door, those horrified looks on their faces as they’d found the brute’s hands on his nether regions while he was wearing the apron and not much else underneath—

He’s definitely not going to think about it.

Tomoko rushes out into the lobby as the bell rings overhead.

“Hayashi-kun, Maki—“ she freezes in place, eyes trained to the large purpling bruise on his neck as her cheeks gain more and more color, “A-ah—oh, um. I was s-so worried!”

Shizu-chan bows shallowly, uttering out an apology.

She drops it, thankfully. She tells Shizu-chan that they’ll be making another delivery today. He brushes past them and makes his way into the office, already dreading what the girls will say.

Kyou is telling Bunko about a man she met at the gym last night.

“He didn’t ask for my number,” she sighs, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, “But he kept coming back to the treadmill next to me. He’s almost as hot as Maki—“

Everyone stops, turning their gazes up at him as he saunters to his desk. He’s trying to move in a way that doesn’t pull his shirt over to expose the obnoxious mark on his skin. As he’s sitting, Chiyo lets out a soft snicker, and he knows already that he’s lost.

“Who knew that Shizu-chan was a vampire,” she practically wheezes, “She’s always leaving worse and worse bite marks on your neck. Is she trying to suck you dry?”

Kyou snorts as she laughs, nearly spilling her drink as Bunko looks down in embarrassment. He sends her the sweetest smile he can muster, wishing so many painful deaths on her as he logs into his computer and opens his email.

“Or maybe she thought she could suck the sickness out of you yesterday like snake venom? I’m sure that’s not the only place she tried to suck—“

“Chiyo, please don’t make me file a sexual harassment claim,” he interjects, smirk firmly in place despite the nerves rattling around in his chest, “Kyou, you’re personnel, correct? I’d like to make a formal complaint.”

Chiyo draws her fingers across her lips as though zipping them shut. Kyou snorts again, reprimanding her through a fit of giggles.

The phone begins to ring, and he’s never been so thankful for the sound of it.

Koizumi texted him this morning. He’d explained everything that had happened with Shizu-chan last night. While he understands very well when it's prudent to respond to their boss’s messages and when it might be okay to ignore them, he’d found that his fingers were shaking far too hard to press the buttons.

He’s not the type of person to become angry in someone else’s stead. He’s not really the type to get mad about anything.

But the old pervert had told him, _‘My boss wanted to see how monstrous your boyfriend really was, so we teased him a bit.’_

And he’d thought about the blood in Shizu-chan’s hair, of the many gangs he’d sent after the brute in high school. He’d thought of how disoriented and shaken up the blond had been as he stumbled into the suite, and how testing Shizu-chan was his privilege and his alone, and—

He’d been surprised by his own rage.

The client on the other line is asking him about making an appointment. They’re booked for the next three weeks, and the man tells him that he can wait. He’s requesting their services for his anniversary party two months from now, and Izaya rattles off several available dates before that.

Shizu-chan seems as though he’s all but forgotten about last night anyway. He’s not sure why he’s letting himself continue to get so worked up about it. Shizuo rages, he regrets, and he tucks the bad memories away in the deepest crevices of his conscience. He forgives the men who attack him the moment he sends them flying, and he rarely remembers the face of a temporary opponent.

But something about the sound of it— _teasing him_? What if Shizu-chan hadn’t been as strong as they’d thought? Would they have beaten him? Would they have killed him?

He yearns for the moment that the brute crushes the life out of the old pervert’s lungs more now than ever. He hates it, this ridiculous loyalty. He hates thinking that he might someday find himself fighting for Shizu-chan’s honor.

He hates thinking that maybe he’s more infatuated with the other man than he’d initially assumed.

He ends the phone call and the day carries on. The next three months are booked by the end of his shift. Tomoko is both overjoyed and frantic with stress.

“Does Shizu-chan need a job?” She asks, only half-joking. 

And he can’t stop himself from laughing at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this is late! It's 10pm here, so as far as my clock goes, it's technically still on-time... but still, I would have loved to have posted it earlier! (It's been a very exhausting week! I promise the next chapter will be on time!)
> 
> So this chapter ends with Wednesday night. Next chapter will be Thursday morning to Friday morning. Then... the next chapter is the big event! Everything that they've went through so far, all revolving around this one night... It's so exciting! I am so pumped to write these next few chapters! 
> 
> Also, this might be a little shameless of me, but a very talented artist on tumblr called frankenfishen has been drawing certain scenes from this story! They're the first pieces of fanart that I've ever received for a fic, and I'm so overwhelmed with happiness! So please check them out! They've portrayed Chiyo (and so many other things) perfectly! (They're also NSFW, so, be warned!)
> 
> http://frankenfishen.tumblr.com/post/142094926162/more-smoke-and-mirrors-themed-practice-drawings
> 
> http://frankenfishen.tumblr.com/post/141932209277/nsfw-if-youre-under-16-then-pretend-that
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! This chapter was a little shorter than I would have preferred, so please be ready for a long one on Tuesday!


	12. Carried Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end draws nearer, just as the sun chases away the stars in the night sky.

Thursday morning comes before he even has the chance to comprehend it.

All this time, he hasn’t really been thinking about the days that have passed them by, but tomorrow is the banquet, Tomoko-san is on the brink of her third mental lapse today, and the louse has massaged the bridge of his nose so many times since the beginning of their shift that there’s a seemingly permanent imprint of his fingertips resting on the surface of his skin.

They’re eating in the office with the girls. Izaya is still on the phone, sneaking tiny bites of lunch while his client rambles about the things they need for their event. Shizuo is the only one not working, and the feeling of sitting still while everyone else stresses over tomorrow puts him on edge.

He’s finishing off his food when Chiyo catches up with her work.

“So how is Kanra-chan doing?” she questions, finally finding the time to open her own meal.

He doesn’t reply for a moment, fiddling restlessly with the corners of the container in his lap as he mulls over what would be appropriate to say. He thinks of the conversation that he had with Tomoko-san over the weekend and how she hasn’t brought it up since. She still sends him those little looks, still pauses in the midst of work to whisper small reassurances his way. While he appreciates the kindness of her actions, he feels like a phony. He wishes it could be easier to talk to her, that he could be the sort of person who can say what they want to say without fumbling with the words.

His eyes wander over to the louse, taking in the way his mouth moves as he speaks with his client. There’s a myriad of emotions working along his lips, so many masks he’s wearing in order to simply converse with another person over the phone. Shizuo finds himself contemplating how it would feel to hide behind so many colorful layers.

“Hayashi-kun,” Chiyo presses, and his face reddens as he redirects his attention to her knowing grin.

She looks smug, as though she's read him perfectly, and he hates the way Izaya’s gaze flits to the two of them for only a moment, probably understanding it too.

“We’re not really talking,” he admits, feeling foolish for making Tomoko-san swear to secrecy just to out himself a few days later, “It didn’t work out.”

Chiyo surprisingly does not make a joke. She looks at him for a long time, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she seems to be considering something. And finally, when she does reply, he wishes that she could just keep her big mouth shut.

“Huh, well, if Maki-kun ever breaks up with Shizu-chan…”

She lets the end of the sentence just hang there, tortuously suggestive. He counts down the hours until they’ll be on the plane back to Ikebukuro. His heart cannot take much more of this.

He’s grimacing down into his empty to-go container when Izaya finishes his call. The louse closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh and stretching his arms above his head.

“Are you sexually harassing more employees, Chiyo?” He questions, sliding open a lid to reveal shadowy browns and sending the girl a sly smile, “Does Kyou-chan need to write you up again?”

Kyou-san chortles despite being in the middle of a phone call of her own. She quickly covers her mouth, apologizing to her client.

“No, Hayashi-kun was just telling me that he and Kanra-chan broke up,” she replies hurriedly, waving her fork in the air, “He’s upset! Look at him! I was consoling him!”

That’s a complete lie, but he doesn’t call her out on it. Izaya shoots him a curious look, picking at his own food as he tells Chiyo that her certain brand of comfort probably isn’t appropriate for the workplace. She laughs and he fakes a smile. Shizuo can read the discomfort in the line of his jaw. He knows that the louse is wondering what exactly he’s getting at.

“Did you now?” the informant questions, a sharpness around the edges of his eyes, “When did this happen?”

Just as he’s struggling with a reply, Tomoko-san pokes her head into the room.

“Hayashi-kun,” she calls, too stressed to even force a smile, “Oh, you’re finished. Thank goodness! Could you come help me with some things?”

It’s a great time to leave, he thinks. If he hadn’t already appreciated their fake boss for everything that she’s done for them, he definitely does now.

Izaya’s stare still burns against his back as he leaves the room.  


* * *

 

Three more calls come in after the brute leaves. It’s taking him so long to eat that he doesn’t feel any fuller than he did an hour ago. Each of the girls (sand Chiyo) seems to stressing so much more than he is. This is their career, he reasons. They’ll be stuck here for years after he and Shizu-chan abandon them, forced to pick up the pieces of their broken business after Fukayama is revealed to be a money-laundering thug.

Minutes meld into hours, which slide into the evening and the ending of his shift. Shizu-chan and Tomoko-san have still not returned by the end of the day, so Chiyo fetches the spare key from the safe and locks the door.

He checks his phone, noting a single unread text. It’s from the brute.

It’s… _a photo._

He remembers the way that Shizuo had fumbled with the camera before, and he wonders if the protozoan accidentally sent it somehow. With such an outdated phone, it seems unlikely, but the brute is always full of surprises.

When he opens it, he can’t react. Chiyo has just finished looping the door key on her keychain, and she asks him if he’s okay. He nods dumbly, throat tight. She’s nosy, and he should have known better than to indicate that something on his screen was so interesting that he couldn’t reply. She cranes her neck to snoop over her shoulder, and her squeal is the only thing that’s able to tear his eyes away from the photo.

“Aw, Hayashi-kun is so cute! Is that a selfie? Who knew he did things like that?!”

Shizu-chan is not smiling in the picture, but he’s mimicked Izaya’s peace sign. Tomoko-san is grinning in the background, waving even in a still frame, as the two of them appear to be cleaning up the remaining food from their event.

The text reads simply, _“Be back soon.”_

“He has it bad for you, Maki-kun,” Chiyo quips, and he doesn’t even want to think of what she means by that.

He makes to turn away, to head back to the bus stop when she stops him.

“Hey,” she hums, grinning broadly, “My fiancé is getting off late too. Why don’t we go grab a drink?”

He’s not sure why he agrees, but he doesn’t even think about it before he does. The thought of making the trip back to the hotel by himself seems inconvenient.

They walk together in peace. Chiyo tells him about her fiancé, how he proposed last winter by sticking a ring in her mitten before she put it on one morning. She says that it wasn’t super romantic, but when he thinks of Shizu-chan pulling a stunt like that, mortification dips chilly fingers into his chest.

“Do you think you and Shizu-chan are going to be together forever?” she asks, and there’s a sly undertone to her words.

He thinks it might be because she thinks he and the real Shizu-chan are messing around outside of work. That’s really all it could be.

“I think so,” he replies, feigning bashfulness if only to throw her off, “We’re in love, right?”

She’s not convinced. He regrets tacking on the last part. He knows that’s given him away. They’re quiet for a moment or two, making their way toward a bar that Chiyo says is her favorite. Finally, after he’s decided that she’s done questioning him about it, she speaks up again.

“Okay, I know this might sound crazy,” she draws out, dragging a hand through her hair and brushing short bangs from her face, “But Shizu-chan is… real, right? She’s not some intricate lie that you’ve come up with so we won’t suspect that you’re actually sleeping with Hayashi-kun? That argument you guys got into last week just seemed a little… specific.”

He’s so surprised by her words that he stops in his tracks. Eyes wide, mask completely obliterated for even just a split second, he stares across the sidewalk at her.

This girl, she is so much sharper than he’d ever given her credit for.

“Why would I make something like that up?”

She appears as though she wants to yell at him, to shake him maybe. He wonders how long she’s been suspicious.

This is not good at all.

“You’re sneaky, Maki-kun, but it’s pretty obvious that you’re lying when it comes to Hayashi-kun. And he sends you selfies? Do guys usually do that sort of thing? Is Shizu-chan your pet name for him?”

The mere idea of Shizu-chan being a pet name makes his skin crawl. The implications—that somehow he’s been harboring these disgraceful feelings for the moron since he heard that stupid nickname and matched it with a face—it’s absurd.

She’s wrong. It’s a taunt. It’s an insult. Shizu-chan is not a man, he is a monster, and thus he does not deserve a human’s name.

It’s not a cute name. _Shizu-chan isn’t cute._

That’s what he tells himself, at least.

“That’s a very strange thing to say, Chiyo,” he draws out eventually, pausing only as she points out the bar, “Could it be that you’re as bad as Tomoko?”

She sends a glare his way, still riddled with that frustrating amusement that never seems to leave her, as she pulls open the door and allows him to pass.

He only realizes too late that she’s taken his avoidance as a challenge.  
  


* * *

   
They’ve just packed the last of the supplies in the truck when Tomoko-san begins asking him about Izaya.

He knew this was going to happen, he’s been dreading it all day. Each time the older woman had turned to him, opening her mouth to speak, he’d felt a wonted dread spreading throughout his chest. But she’d always ended up saying something else, and the relief belatedly began to replace any fear.

However, now is his penance, he finds.

“Have you guys talked at all?” she asks, locking the door after he pulls it down and fastens it in place, “About how you feel, I mean.”

His nerves are bundled firmly at his temples, aching a headache along his skull as he struggles to articulate what he could possibly say to satiate her curiosity.

“No,” he breathes out, stuffing his hands in his pockets and wishing he wouldn’t have forgotten his cigarettes at the hotel this morning, “Kind of pointless, isn’t it?”

She nods solemnly, placing at hand at her chin. She’s thinking way too hard about this, and he feels guilty knowing that this dilemma of his isn’t even real to begin with. This entire situation has become such a pain that he wonders if it would just be easier to come clean.

As they pull themselves up into their respective seats and shut their doors, Tomoko-san still appears to be mulling it over.

“Hayashi-kun,” she speaks, voice lower than he has ever heard before, “What if you wrote him a love letter?”

He can only scoff at the thought of it—Izaya would be mortified. _He_ would be mortified.

“No matter if he knows or not, he’s still seeing someone.”

But he can tell, just by the way that her eyes reach out into the road, as though there might be some clue between the dotted lines of the street as to how Hayashi-kun can win Maki-kun’s love, that she will not give up so easily.

Thankfully, the vibrating of his phone breaks the silence.

It’s Izaya, of course, and he’s sent a picture.

The louse is smiling drunkenly through his screen, teeth bared and brows high. There’s color on his cheeks as his arm drapes lazily over the shoulders of an equally intoxicated Chiyo.

The banquet is tomorrow, and Izaya is getting drunk again.

When did Shizuo become the most responsible person on this job?

 _‘Hashi-kn is soooooooo ctue,_ ’ is what the text reads, and Shizuo needs to stare at it for a long time before any of it begins to make sense.

Tomoko-san seems to sense his unrest, chancing a glance in his direction as she steers the truck along the street. Izaya sends two more messages in quick successions, and he knows that it won’t stop. The louse is entirely too chatty even when he isn’t drinking.

_‘shizu-chn who? Hasyhi-kun all the way!’_

He almost represses the memory of the next message the moment he sees it—it’s so impossibly disturbing. This is not the real Izaya, he reminds himself. Under the influence, the louse becomes so much more affectionate than either of them are comfortable with.

_‘Hashyai-kun, I luv you.’_

He almost doesn’t reply, but then he thinks of the horrified manner in which Izaya will surely be flipping through his messages in the morning. That thought alone somehow gives him the strength to type out a message without shattering his phone.

_‘I love you too.’_

Moments later, his phone is ringing. Tomoko-san jumps at the sound of it, swerving dangerously to the side of the road before she composes herself. Both of them apologize simultaneously.

When he picks up, he has to pull the phone away from his ear. Chiyo’s laughter booms through the speakers, so loud that her voice crackles through the line.

_“H-Haayashi-kuuuun loooooves Maki-kuuuuun! I-I can’t believe this!”_

Tomoko-san bristles at the sound of it, immediately on edge. He’s counting down numbers in his head, imagining the little drunken flush that is surely working its way along Izaya’s skin.

“So what?” he huffs, listening for the sound of Izaya’s voice in the background. Through the bustling of the bar in which they’re more than likely sitting, it’s impossible to find, “Let me talk to him.”

He can hear phone being exchanged between drunken hands, sparing a look at poor Tomoko-san as she attempts to understand what could possibly be going on. After a while, he recognizes the sound of the louse’s breathing—flushing lightly at the realization that there’s only one way that he could remember such a noise so clearly.

“H-Hayashi-kun,” Izaya slurs, laughter high in his tone, “I’ve been w-waiting for you, you know. K-keeping a lady waiting is soooo rude.”

He rolls his eyes, biting back the retort that bubbles in his throat. Tomoko-san offers to pick the flea and Chiyo up, and he repeats this instead.

_“Suuuure, if only I can see Hayashi-kun sooner.”_

Well, this entire mission is fucked, he thinks. So close to the end, Koizumi-san is going to be furious that they’ve let so much of themselves bleed through into these characters that they’re playing.

Eventually, they’re able to decipher the directions that Izaya gives them, and Tomoko-san stays silent as he continues to speak with the louse. That familiar color is spread across her cheeks, and she’s shaking just like she was the very first day that she asked him about Maki-kun.

 _‘His persuasion’_ , he remembers, _‘And now she thinks we’re both like that.’_

The truck barely squeezes into a parking spot in front of the bar, and suddenly, the realization hits him that three people barely fit in the front seat last time, and now there will be four. Tomoko-san doesn’t seem to have gotten that far. She’s still trembling with embarrassment because of he and the louse’s impromptu confessions.

“We’re here,” he says simply, not even waiting for the flea to reply before hanging up.

Tomoko-san is careful to lock the truck as they climb out onto the sidewalk. He waits for her to make her way around, staring at the darkened glass doors of the bar and dreading this already.

“Hayashi-kun,” Tomoko-san murmurs, wringing her hands for the billionth time since he’d met her, “You and Maki-kun—“

“Yeah, it was all a lie. Shizu-chan is my nickname.”

Fuck it, he thinks.

This is definitely not worth the headache of sorting everything out.  


* * *

 

Izaya stumbles forward, heart swelling as he spots a familiar blond head emerging through the crowd. His phone still flashes with the message _‘call ended’_ , but he disregards it, drunken excitement getting the best of him as he falls forward into the brute’s awaiting arms.

“Hayashi-kun, finally,” he hiccups, relishing the warmth of the other man’s abdomen, thinking of all the places where he wants to touch the taller man when they get back to the hotel, “I’ve been so l-lonely without you, b-brute.”

Shizuo doesn’t seem amused in the least, simply scoops him up like a blushing bride and begins the trek outside. Somewhere else, a place that seems so far away as dizziness overtakes him, he can hear Tomoko coaxing Chiyo along as well.

The world blurs after that, so much so that he can barely discern anything aside from Shizu-chan’s arms around him and the gentle drum of the brute’s heartbeat thumping in his ears. He finds himself fighting the dark corners of sleep as they hint at the edges of his vision, listening to the soft lull of words rumbling through the monster’s chest as he and Tomoko talk.

“Chiyo-san’s house is closer,” Tomoko’s voice whispers, “Are you sure you want me to drop you off so far away from your house?”

Shizu-chan defends this decision somehow, but he can’t make it out.

His stomach lurches suddenly, and he barely even notices as he spits up on something very smooth and very warm. The world veers to the side, disorienting as he clings to the mess he’s made and the softness that seems to be trying to escape him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” A voice howls, so rough and husky that arousal bubbles inside of him, “You couldn’t wait five more fucking minutes before you barfed everywhere?!”

Tomoko’s voice cuts through his haze, and suddenly everything is so much clearer. Chiyo is nowhere to be found, probably stumbling around in her apartment as her fiancé helps her get ready for bed. There’s vomit splattered across Shizu-chan’s chest, dribbling down the front of his shirt and falling to the floor. Tomoko is reassuring the beast that it’s fine, much worse things have been dumped in the front seat— _etc. etc. etc._  

She’s rambling so much that he wishes he could regain that dizziness.

He’s picked up a bit more roughly this time. Shizu-chan bids farewell to Tomoko, stepping out of the car and ignoring the way that Izaya complains as the mess on the blond's shirt presses against him.

“It’s your own damn fault,” he growls, tightening his grip around the informant, “Drinking? Are you kidding, shitty louse? You do realize that tomorrow is the banquet, right?”

He laughs at that, dropping his head back and watching lazily as Tomoko’s car pulls forward into the night.

“I won’t be doing anything special tomorrow, Shizu-chan,” he purrs in reply, watching the stars blur together in the vast expanse of the sky, wondering if all of the humans back in Ikebukuro are missing him too, “It’s all you now… so don’t mess this up.”

Shizuo stiffens at his words.

The brute is undeniably nervous. He can feel it in the tense lines of his body, in the way his pulse races through thick monster skin. Heiwajima Shizuo has never achieved control in his life. He’s never contained himself long enough to come through for anyone. Izaya knows this job will be easy for him. He understands the strength that it’s taken to cage in the immeasurable force of his rage. His body quakes like metal under angry fists, the weight of self-restraint folding his shoulders like so many vending machines against the pavement, and Izaya finds that maybe Shizu-chan is so much more capable of succeeding than he realizes.

He won’t tell Shizuo this. He won’t clue him in on how much faith he has in his newfound self-control. Instead, he continues to gaze up at the inky patch of night through the clouds.

He’s being carried through an open door, smiling upside down at the doorman as the poor man attempts to remain respectful despite their position—Izaya sprawled out in Shizuo’s arms like a child, Shizuo covered in vomit. The two of them wandering along as though this sort of thing is somehow normal.

He’s losing focus as the elevator nears their floor. Shizu-chan is gentler now that no one is around to see them. He carries Izaya through the hotel room's entrance, managing miraculously to close and lock the door without dropping him. Izaya expects to find himself in bed when he pulls himself out of the fuzzy claws of slumber, but instead, he’s in the Jacuzzi.

The tub is empty. Shizuo is wetting him down with the detachable sprayer. He’s working rough hands along the informant’s naked chest, only stopping when Izaya bats his fingers away.

“Clean yourself, Shizu-chan,” he all but mumbles, feeling so foolish, being bathed like a child, “I can take care of myself.”

Shizuo clicks his tongue, but doesn’t argue. He pulls his dirtied t-shirt over his head, stepping out of his pants and boxers and padding into the shower.

He blanks out after that, awakening later in the dark bedroom and Shizu-chan tucks both of them in.  


* * *

 

It’s far too early in the morning when he begins to feel Izaya’s fingers inching along his skin. The louse’s digits are as clumsy as he is drunk, and Shizuo swallows his annoyance as he reminds himself to be careful in prying those hands away.

“Sleep,” he barks, exhaustion catching in his throat as he scoots just a little further forward on the bed, “Cut that shit out.”

Izaya seems to have other plans, however. He’s pressing his erection against the small of Shizuo’s back, letting out the tiniest of noises as he grinds their bodies together. His fingers catch against the button of the blond’s underwear, teasing at the hole in the fabric as his breath beats hot against his neck.

Shizuo turns around abruptly, heart hammering as he takes each of the idiot’s wrists in his palms. He takes a certain care in gripping loosely, and the fact is not lost on either on them. Izaya grins at him through the darkness, eyes only half-lidded as his irises burn black holes in the night.

“You’re drunk.”

The louse laughs at him, but he doesn’t release the asshole’s arms.

Izaya thinks this is all a joke, that he’ll take advantage of this situation regardless of the state the bastard is in. He imagines the little headache waking up in the morning with bruises that he doesn’t remember earning. He imagines the way his own reflection might warp if he were to allow himself to do something so ugly to someone he claims to care for.

He’s a monster, sure, but his heart still thrums at the mere idea of it: of allowing those shaking hands to touch him, of laying the idiot informant down and relishing in the control he might have over a barely conscious victim.

That’s not him at all. Izaya is a self-destructive idiot. He needs to realize, once and for all, that Shizuo will not destroy him no matter how much the flea might want him to. 

He wraps Izaya in his arms, a hot cage of skin that the louse wriggles around in for the longest time.

“Listen stupid,” he huffs, face pressed firmly against Izaya’s cheek, skin tingling with the sensation of holding him, “We’re flying back home over the weekend. Remind me to pay you back then.”

Izaya makes a joke about perverts fornicating in airplane bathrooms, and he lets that implication hang in the air between them until the informant finally allows himself to be dragged into sleep.  


* * *

  
When Izaya’s alarm begins blaring, neither of them are ready.

He moves to shut the stupid thing off, but Shizu-chan only wraps his arms around him tighter. His head aches, and for the life of him, he can’t seem to remember anything after Chiyo’s sneaky smile last night. They’re both clothed, he notes, so nothing particularly exciting must have happened.

“Brute,” he wheezes, fighting against the moron’s grip, “Let go.”

Only then does the protozoan release him, and his pounding head is soothed only slightly as the noise cuts out.

Shizuo rises from the bed slowly. His hair is standing up in all directions, bobbing slightly as he moves about. He seems a little annoyed. Shoulders stiff, veins visible as he reaches a hand forward to pull himself up, Izaya wonders what could have happened to make him so on edge.

And then, he remembers.

Today is the banquet. Tonight, if they play their cards right, will be their very last night in Aomori.

He denies that the feeling creeping along his insides is dread. He refuses to admit that maybe he might be… worried.

He thinks of Shizu-chan rejoining his friends back home, settling easily back into the routine of his job, finding peace in this new calmness of his—content, beloved, _happy_.

And he considers how open and empty his apartment is. Namie will be starting her work today, slacking off and cutting corners because she thinks he won’t notice. He’ll go out to eat, maybe, and people-watch. He’ll see some clients, sneak around Ikebukuro, and then what?

He and Shizu-chan will be strangers—enemies still, maybe, but the memories of their stay here will fade away gradually, until there is nothing but hatred for him behind those deep, brown eyes.

He’s still a little tipsy, he thinks. These are not the normal thoughts of Orihara Izaya.

There is no chance, no way the stars might align in the broad emptiness of the universe, that he will ever admit to anyone—even himself—that he’d readily accepted the drink that Chiyo had thrust into his hands last night because of musings such as these.

Shizuo, so unaware of the hurricane currently wracking through his brain, makes his way into the bathroom to get ready. The brute is plagued with a nervousness of his own, Izaya knows. The beast has never struck him as the type to care too much about what others thought of him. But he can tell now, watching as he silently makes his way around the suite, that he’s completely terrified.

A cowardly monster, he thinks. So human, but so much more than that.

Despite his pounding head, he drags himself into the bathroom behind the brute. The tile is cold against his bare feet. He notes the pile of clothing on the floor, scrunching his nose as the putrid smell of it assaults his senses. He decides not to even think about what might be staining the fabric. His pride will not allow it.

He squeezes in beside the brute, fetching his toothbrush from the cabinet and noting all of the toothpaste smeared along the sink. He imagines the blond applying entirely too much force to the tube, splattering the paste everywhere and surely so riddled with nerves that he could barely find the will to clean it up. Oh well. It’s not the worst mess that the hotel staff has ever cleaned up here.

When they finish, the blond wets down his hair. His movements are robot and stiff, his eyes hard. Izaya considers drawing his fingers along the sharp lines of his muscles. He wonders what the brute would do, if he could hold himself back from lashing out and hurting him.

Instead, he forces himself to speak.

“Shizu-chan,” he draws out, breathy and tired, swallowing the tingling of embarrassment at what he’s about to say, “You’ll do fine.”

Shizuo looks to him then, meets his glare. He knows the monster can read all of these ugly little feelings that he’s working so hard to hide, but he hides them regardless. For old time’s sake, maybe. To keep up this charade that nothing has changed between them.

And the brute nods, visibly calmer as he reaches for a towel to dry his hair.

They get dressed—Shizu-chan sending tiny daggers with his eyes as he digs a dirty shirt from the laundry—and they grab breakfast from the fridge before leaving for the bus.

“Oh, by the way,” Shizuo pipes up suddenly, as they’re waiting around for the bus to arrive, “Everyone knows about us. You told Chiyo that I’m actually Shizu-chan.”

There’s ice in his veins. He stares at the brute, wide-eyed and horrified. This can’t be true. He fishes his phone from his pocket, thumbing through all of the horrible texts in his log. Sitting there, snug between so many unintelligible ramblings, sits a confession.

His stomach might have just collapsed.

“She was too drunk to remember,” he tries, knowing so well that Chiyo has an inhuman sense about these things, and surely the one thing she’ll remember is that single confession.

Shizuo fixes him with a stern look, tugging his cigarette carton from his jacket pocket and lighting one between his lips.

“I told Tomoko-san too.”

Maybe it won’t take until they return to Ikebukuro for them to never speak to each other again, he muses, anger bristling deep inside of his chest. At this very moment, he wants nothing more than to ignore the moron for the rest of eternity.  
  


* * *

 

  
Tomoko-san pounces the moment he walks through the door.

He’s dragged into the kitchen, so many containers shoved into his arms that he can’t even see over the top of the pile. He’s shuffled through the door, dizzy from running back and forth so many times. The kitchen staff is practically screaming at each other, and he feels his blood pressure skyrocket as he’s enveloped by the stress of the pre-banquet frenzy.

Tomoko-san has taken firm command of the business—barking orders, telling off the more unruly cooks. She has each of the office girls running through the kitchen, carrying supplies out to the truck. Even Izaya eventually slinks in, miserable and hungover, pinching the bridge of his nose so many times that Shizuo wonders if the imprint of his fingers will finally become permanently embedded in his skin.

The cooks grumble at the sight of the louse, but there’s no time for them to say anything. His annoyance only spikes as he witnesses the curt way in which they push the finished food toward the informant, and he barely remembers to count backward in his head before he does something he’ll regret.

Everyone is bumping into each other, rushing about. Izaya is sluggishly struggling to keep up, eyes squinted as he bristles at the banging of pots and pans against the stoves. Chiyo seems fine, he notes. He wonders how often she stops by that bar for a drink. Her tolerance could probably put the entire staff to shame.

Just as he’s reaching for another container, there’s a clamoring directly behind him. When he turns, the louse is frozen in place, staring down at a spilled bin and the hot soup splattered around the counter and floor. He can feel the hot wetness of it clinging to the back of his legs, can see the liquid sparkling against the informant’s skin. The cook across the counter is livid.

_‘100, 99, 98, 97—‘_

He’s opening his mouth to yell, brandishing a mixing spoon as though he’s ready to whack the flea across the face for spilling the food he’s just finished.

_’96, 95, 94—‘_

He steps forward, grabbing the louse by the wrist and pulling him back, placing himself between the two men and glowering down at the cook.

_‘93, 92, 91—‘_

The guy backs down pretty quickly, and the noise around them resumes. He can see Tomoko-san releasing a nervous breath. Chiyo’s laughter is hard to ignore.

Izaya doesn’t even seem to comprehend what’s happening around him. Just as he’s releasing the louse’s wrist does the jackass even notice that he’s covered in soup. Shizuo volunteers to clean the mess, but Bunko-san is already pushing past him with the mop. She smiles at him, a certain sadness in her eyes that makes his heart clench, but he tries not to think about it.

They’re caught up in the rush after that. Izaya perks up after Kyou-san shoves a can of chilled coffee into his palms. He’s moving a little faster, listening a little more intently, and Shizuo feels comfortable enough with that to tear his eyes away from the louse and concentrate fully on his work.

They’ve packed the truck full, so Tomoko-san grabs him to make the first trip to Fukayama’s estate.

She’s trembling as she pulls out into the street, eyes a little watery. She’s so stressed out over this, and he feels momentarily guilty for keeping so many secrets from her. She doesn’t understand that Fukayama is a scumbag. She has no idea that he and Izaya will be gone tomorrow. Her business will hopefully flourish without them, despite everything, but there’s an aching in his chest at the thought of it.

Leaving this place, returning home.

Suddenly, he feels homesick for this life as well.

“Tomoko-san,” he speaks, voice a low rumble of so many more emotions than he understands, “I… thank you. For everything.”

She’s confused, but she smiles. Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. She pulls a hand from the wheel to rest on top of his own.

“You’re a good employee, Hayashi-kun. A good person,” her voice shakes as her eyes refuse to leave the road ahead, “I know you’ll do great.”

He looks away, swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat. He almost tells her, _‘Be careful. This is all a trick.’_

But somehow, he stops himself.  


* * *

 

There’s a small stretch of down-time after Tomoko and Shizu-chan leave for the estate.

The girls have taken refuge in the office, and Izaya dutifully followed. He hadn’t quite caught the entirety of the exchange between the brute and that cook earlier, but he definitely hadn’t missed the resulting glares sent his way for a long time after.

A human who can see through him is only interesting when his stomach isn’t doing back-flips.

“So, Maki-kun,” Chiyo sighs, cracking her back before throwing herself down in her chair, “Fun night last night, right?”

He doesn’t even have the strength to play with her. He simply sends her a steely glare.

“I heard you yacked all over Tomoko-chan’s truck.”

Bunko-chan makes a strangled noise somewhere to his left. Kyou is muffling her snorting giggles.

“I might have,” he grumbles, painfully aware of how uncharacteristically this disgusting sickness has him acting, “I don’t actually remember.”

She coos at that, waving a hand in front of her face as she makes a rude comment about men who can’t hold their liquor.

“But Hayashi-kun confessed, right? Or, _Shizu-chan_ , actually, right?”

He’s been dreading this moment since the idiot brute told him about what happened last night. There was no way that Chiyo wouldn’t find a way to sneak that in. By the cool but catty expressions on the other girls' faces, he’s sure that she took the time last night to call them up and slur her way through the story of what transpired between them.

“I guess you’ve found me out,” he smiles, “But only because I told you.”

That might have taken some of the wind out of her sails, but she’s still vibrating with excitement. He’s not sure what’s wrong with these people, actually. Why do they care so much if he and Shizu-chan are together? Who in their right mind would care so much about a relationship between him and the blond idiot?

“Don’t be like that,” she cries, amusement so obvious and annoying in the lilt of her words, “I’ve been rooting for you guys this entire time! I can’t believe it went on for so long right under our noses!”

His pride returns if only a little at that comment. He might have lost, sure, but at least he’d put up a decent fight. And he’s forfeited, really, because tomorrow none of this will matter anyway.

Tomorrow, well, this entire trip might has well have been a dream.

That thought doesn’t sit well with him at all, but he tries to squash it as he takes another sip of coffee. Shizu-chan seems determined enough that things will be different when they get back, but he’s not so sure. The pea-brained brute might be an optimist, but if people-watching has taught him anything, it’s that humans forget, they betray one another, and they break each other’s hearts as easily as they hold them in their palms.

And he knows, fingers tracing small lines around the rim of the coffee can, that he’s a fool for allowing his own heart to find its way into those monstrous paws.  


* * *

  
When the truck is empty, he and Tomoko-san hurriedly climb back into the truck.

She’s pushing the speed limit, sweat beading her brow as Shizuo wonders how someone like Izaya would fake his way through comforting her. He’s not sure which is worse—Izaya always knowing the best ways to lie, or someone like him: feeling for another person and not knowing the words to say to make them feel better.

Fukayama was nowhere to be found when they’d entered his estate. A lot of employees had been scrambling about, taking various items from their hands and thanking them breathlessly, and Shizuo had sighed in relief upon discovering that the bastard wasn’t standing around with that fucking smirk on his face.

Fukayama thinks that he tiptoes high above the world, he decides, so much like another bastard back at the catering company. And like Izaya, he must have a weakness. There must be a vulnerable spot tucked somewhere deep within his tiny, black heart.

None of that matters, really. He’s going to punch the guy, and that’s pretty much it.

He’ll leave the mind-games to the louse.

Tomoko-san is telling him about his role during the event. It’s similar to all of their other jobs, and he almost forgets to feign sickness as he listens to her talk. He tries to mimic the flea’s actions earlier this morning—pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out an airy sigh that sounds fake even in his own ears.

“Oh, Hayashi-kun,” Tomoko-san gasps, so innocent and gullible. He feels terrible for this lie already, “Don’t let the stress get to you! It’ll be okay!”

He spares her a look, scrunching his face in the most pained expression he can muster. It’s been so long since he’s felt real physical discomfort. He imagines Kasuka playing a role for a movie, the damn louse fooling an especially perceptive client. He can do this. He can pull this off.

“Ah, it’s okay,” he wheezes, searching the recesses of his brain for his inner-actor, “I—I haven’t been feeling very good. It’s okay. I… can still work.”

It’s award-worthy, he thinks. Kasuka would be so proud.

Izaya… maybe not so much, but the bastard will never know of this, so he tries not to think about it.

When they pull into the loading area at work, he makes a show of stumbling a bit as he exits the truck. Tomoko-san raises a hand to his forehead, pulling her hand back as quickly as she touches him.

“Your skin is actually really warm,” she soothes, and he’s not quite sure how he pulled that one off, “Do you… need to go home? I-I mean, I think we’ll be okay without you if you’re really sick—“

“No, really. I’ll work.”

She doesn’t argue, of course. He knows she’ll be screwed without him there, and _he’ll_ be screwed if he’s not there. (Not that Koizumi could really do anything to him, but what would be the point of hanging around for so long if he’s just going to throw it all away now?)

They’re back inside of the building in no time. Tomoko-san runs to the office to fetch Izaya and the girls, as he begins to gather up the new dishes and carry them out to the truck. The cook from earlier stops him as he reaches for a newly-prepared container of soup.

“H-hey, man, I really didn’t mean—“

“It’s fine,” he blurts, definitely not used to this sort of thing at all. He’s flustered by the mere idea of someone apologizing to him when they don’t have to, “Just be nice to him. He’s not feeling well.”

The guy nods, sparing him a smile before helping the container into his hands.

These moments—feeling as though people really seem to care about what he thinks and feels—secretly, he’ll miss them the most.

Izaya is a lot livelier when he reenters the room. He’s joking with Chiyo about something, giving her a hard time for once, but Shizuo has trouble focusing on too many things at once. The conversation is lost on him. The second load is secured inside of the truck, and Tomoko-san places a gentle hand on his shoulder, ushering him toward the back door.

There’s one more trip after this, then each of them will make their way to the estate. They’ll clean up, they’ll get the food set out, and in a few short hours, the banquet will begin.

As they’re climbing into the truck, he takes a long look at the building they’re leaving behind. It’s been three weeks. So many things have changed.

Returning home as a different person, he wonders how his old life will feel as he finds himself settling back into familiar routines.

And he wonders, excitement raising goose-pimples along his skin, how easily Izaya will fit in this new version of his reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited! This chapter is the last one before everything happens! I've had the ending of this story planned since before I wrote it, and it's so amazing to think that I'll be reaching that point already! It's been a little over a month, hasn't it? It feels as though we've been working our way through this story for so much longer!
> 
> So the truth is revealed! But no one is really surprised. I felt that the girls figuring everything out would be the true cue that this story was ending! There are really no more secrets left, aside from the "big one"! All that's left is for Izaya to find out if Shizuo will keep his promise or not. Will he remember their time spent together? Will everything just go back to the way it was before? We'll see! We really will see!
> 
> And I'm so sorry about writing more drunk Izaya. I just love writing him drunk. He really wouldn't confess so many things if he wasn't, would he?
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading this chapter! It wasn't as long as I was planning, but it got to the point where I thought, 'How long can I really talk about them getting ready before it gets tedious?'
> 
> I'll see you guys on Friday!


	13. Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It comes and goes.
> 
> (The archive warnings have to be changed for this chapter to include "Graphic Depictions of Violence" so please be careful while reading.)

The picking of violinists tuning their instruments mingles with the sound of scraping chairs, of stressful, muffled orders and pots and pans clinking together as the catering company finishes setting everything in place and Fukayama’s staff hurriedly makes the last arrangements of decorations.

The orchestra has already found their spot at the top of a high stage. They’ve been practicing for nearly half an hour now, and Shizuo can’t say that the soft lull of their music is making him any less on edge. He was lying earlier, when he told Tomoko-san that he didn’t feel well, but now he thinks that he really might be sick. His stomach is curling itself in all sorts of knots.

Izaya brushes his fingers lightly across the blond’s arm. He pauses for a moment, relaxing his expression and turning to stare down at the smaller man. He’s greeted with a smile, and it’s not as sarcastic as he expects.

Guests are beginning to gather in the lobby. The banquet won’t start for another fifteen minutes, but the sound of their eager, chattering voices concentrates the most horrible bundle of nerves right in the pit of his chest. He’s smoked almost his entire pack of cigarettes today. He’s already itching for another.

He shuffles about awkwardly. Tomoko-san had carried in a pile of second-hand dress clothes right before they’d left, instructing for everyone to grab their size and change before leaving. The longest pair of pants still hang a little too high on his ankles, and he’s feeling like tuna in a can—huffing tiny breaths in too-tight-too-short clothing, sweating nervously and trembling with anticipation.

Tomoko-san passes by them, mumbling to herself as she straightens out the front of his shirt. She might be even more unsettled than he is. She hasn’t stopped moving since each of them piled out of their respective cars—Izaya with Chiyo and Bunko-san, Shizuo and Tomoko-san, and Kyou-san eagerly climbing inside of a roomy mini-van with the group of cooks.

“Are you ready?” Tomoko-san asks suddenly, her eyes searching for something in his expression.

He tries to smile, but by the way that she flinches, he knows he’s failed.

“Y-yeah,” he breathes, not even having to pretend that he's feeling ill anymore, “I’m ready.”

She stops to place a comforting hand on Izaya’s shoulder before she moves along.

He and the louse will be carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres around the room. Tomoko-san and the girls will be pouring drinks, and the kitchen staff will take care of the buffet table.

The minutes count down slowly. The orchestra straightens up, raising their bows. Two members of Fukayama’s staff put shaking hands over the heavy handles of the banquet hall doors.

In a heartbeat, they’re pulling them open, and people are stepping in.

And at the top of the stairs, he spots him—a smug bastard in an expensive suit, his scar standing out against the paleness of his skin as he welcomes the crowd. For a split second, their eyes connect.

And Fukayama smiles.

* * *

  
Izaya is winding through throngs of guests, welcoming excited women in sparkling dresses, nodding to gruff men in in dark suits who barely look at him. He’s drinking in the energy of so many humans packed together, reveling in their heat, in the noises that they make and all of the emotions that he can read so easily on their faces.

His tray empties quickly, so he heads back to the buffet to collect more appetizers.

He’s catching little glimpses of Shizu-chan sneaking around, not so graceful, not so friendly. The brute is radiating with nervousness, white as a sheet with dark shadows creasing under his eyes. He’s never seen the blond so worked up in his life, and over something so silly.

This job will be easy, he knows it. When the time is right, he’ll wrap those monster fists around their prize, and they’ll be headed home on the earliest plane they can catch.

The cooks falter slightly when he approaches. None of them will quite look him in the eye, and the man who lashed out at him earlier is sneaking little glances in Shizu-chan’s direction. Are they his harem? Has the brute amassed a fan club? Have these muscle-headed idiots sensed the tiny pea size of the beast’s brain and the power of his punches and flocked to him like so many weaklings to an alpha male?

He’s not sure what to make of this at all.

“I’m just here for more snacks,” he chirps, adding extra ice to his cheery tone, just in case they aren’t sure that he knows what they think of him, “I don’t bite, I promise.”

One of the cooks scrambles to place more food on his platter. Well, if he can control these morons through Shizu-chan’s influence, it’s not like he can complain.

With a nod and the sweetest _‘thank you’_ he can force out, he’s on his way back into the crowd.

He catches Tomoko’s eye as he passes the drink station. She’s calmed down a lot since earlier, and she actually manages to send him a tiny smile. He returns it, something strange stirring deep inside of him as he flicks his gaze back to the crowd.

His phone is buzzing in his pocket, but there’s no way he can answer it. Koizumi would surely know better than to harass him right now. Although, knowing the old pervert, he might think of it as a game _—‘how many disgusting texts can I send him before the vibrations force him to sneak away, if only just to turn his phone off?’_

Shizu-chan is carrying an empty tray toward the cooks. Tomoko-san smiles at him as well, but he doesn’t appear to reciprocate. She looks worried, and Izaya feels something akin to pride at the sight. The brute, learning to deceive other people. There might just be hope for him yet.

Just as the first few pieces of food have been removed from his freshly-stocked platter, the orchestra stops. Fukayama is standing on the stage, tapping a spoon against a crystal glass in the tackiest manner he could have ever imagined. The crowd pauses, all eyes turned to the man standing so high above them. He’s smiling, and there is something sinister behind his eyes. Izaya feels as though he might be looking in the mirror at his younger self—if he’d ever been so stupid and so utterly helpless to take care of himself.

If he’d ever been in as much hot water as Fukayama is, whether he knows it or not.

“Thank you for joining me tonight—“he begins, and Izaya’s eyes scan the audience. He spots a splotch of blond just in time to watch Shizu-chan dipping out of sight, taking advantage of one of the many hiding places Izaya had outlined in the map he’d made.

Fukayama gives a speech about working hard to achieve wealth and happiness. He talks about the “little guy”, and how not so long ago he was working hard to survive. He mentions _Tomoko’s_ in a manner which brings color to the poor woman’s cheeks. He makes her sound as though her business was failing before he saved the day.

And Izaya finds, a little perturbed by his own feelings, that this only makes him more eager for Shizu-chan to knock the idiot’s lights out.

The speech is ending, and Fukayama announces that he’s donating a certain sum of money to Tomoko’s company, as a show of good faith. Tomoko doesn’t seem to have been clued in to this beforehand, and he notices just how mortified she seems to be blindsided in such a way. He descends the steps of the stage, coming to greet her at the drink station as the audience claps. Izaya imagines that she must feel like a specimen at a freak show—on display in front of everyone, pitied and looked down upon.

He’s not as excited about seeing her like this as he would have expected.

* * *

  
The hall stretches out before him—a long, darkened cavern, footsteps echoing all around him as he drags himself toward the room at the end. Light pours out from under the door. He’d watched from the shadows moving across the walls, heart thundering in his chest, as Fukayama had padded up to his room. No bodyguards, just as promised. He’s vulnerable and so unknowing that it almost hurts to ambush him. Shizuo has never likened himself to a predator, at least never with a clear head. He’s never followed someone with the sole intention of hurting them.

His stomach lurches at the thought.

The door creaks as he pushes it open. Fukayama doesn’t turn, but his shoulders twitch. His safe is opened just a little further to the left. He’s fiddling with something at his desk.

“Hayashi Yukio,” he greets, still not turning around, “So nice of you to join me.”

A cold chill runs down his spine. He’s been found out. Fukayama has known that this moment would come. Someone must have tipped him off.

“I know about you,” the older man continues, voice a low rumble, “Hayashi Yukio, I know all about you.”

And he turns, finally. Shizuo finds himself staring across the room, down into the barrel of a handgun. Fukayama is smiling like he’s won, like he holds every single card and there is nothing Shizuo can do to stop him. There’s a mad glimmer in his eyes. He’s brave, but he’s trembling, and Shizuo knows now that this man has completely figured him out.

How, he isn’t so sure.

“Your father wouldn’t be too happy with you, would he? A pastor, isn’t he? …And what would your sisters think? Wouldn’t they be so broken up to find out that their big brother is working as a hitman for that bastard Koizumi?”

He pauses, running the words over in his head. His… _sisters_? His father, a _pastor_?

He’s never considered that the name Hayashi Yukio might actually belong to someone else. There’s a man out there somewhere going about his life, running through the day to day tasks of his own reality, completely unaware of the slimy debtor who has snooped into his private information, mistaking him for a dangerous criminal after his head.

And he knows, in this very moment, that Izaya was right.

Fukayama is an idiot.

“Uh,” he draws a blank. This situation is so insanely stupid that he doesn’t know what to say, “Well. Okay.”

Fukayama flinches a little. A vein bulges above his brow. He seems to sense that Shizuo doesn’t care at all. He seems to think that this information should have affected him so much more.

After a moment of awkward silence, the older man tries again.

“W-well, if you make a move, I’ll still kill you. So please run along and tell your boss that he needs to be a little smarter next time.”

Shizuo shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wonders how many bullets are in the clip. He’s sure he could dodge at least two, but he doesn’t know if that will give him enough time to scale the distance of the room and wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat.

He eyes the safe, spotting a thick envelope sitting near the back. He’s not sure exactly how much money he’s supposed to grab, but if Izaya is correct (which he usually is), anything will be fine as long as Fukayama pays somehow.

They’re at a stand-still for the longest time. He can hear the party resuming downstairs as he take a cautious step forward and closes the door. Fukayama is trembling so violently that the gun bounces in all directions. He might not be able to land a single shot.

He wonders why Koizumi didn’t warn them, or at least provide them with bullet-proof vests. This job has been one huge mess after another.

“Y-you don’t think I’ll shoot you, but I will,” the other man shrieks, and Shizuo wonders how he’s evaded Koizumi’s wrath for so long, “Get the fuck out!”

He backs into the desk, rattling everything that rests on top as he practically climbs onto its surface. Eyes on the gun, Shizuo takes another step forward. He doesn’t like getting shot. He’d like to end this night without having to go through it again.

He can't think of anything to say that might scare the other man into submission. He’s at least a head taller than the coward, so he straightens his back, looming over him and hoping that might be enough to make him throw in the towel.

As he’s reaching forward, fingers mere centimeters from the grip, an explosion cracks through the air. A heat bursts along his wrist. There’s pain in his abdomen, and the mere force of it pushes him back.

A click, a torturous breath, and another loud bang.

He stumbles, struggling to keep his footing as a sharp stinging sears into his belly. When he looks down, blood is peeking through the white fabric of his shirt. Before his vision can completely focus, another bullet lodges itself in his chest.

He’s not sure about the exact position of the heart. He’d been jumped the day that they’d covered it in biology. He can feel it sometimes, beating relentlessly against his ribs. He can sense the way that Izaya has peeled away the walls around it and made a home there. He wonders, blackness fading along the corners of his racing thoughts, if that might be right where the copper has embedded itself.

There’s a final shot, tearing through his knee. The shrapnel of shattered bones and bullet casings lodge into his calves. His legs buckle underneath him. He reaches an arm forward as he’s falling, striking the gun from Fukayama’s grip with such force that he can hear the other man’s arm cracking against his.

Fukayama cries out, thrown backward by Shizuo’s strength, knocking over the desk with a resounding clatter. He’s feeling so tired, lightheaded and pissed. He’s thinking about Izaya waiting for him downstairs. He can feel the cold tendrils of familiar failure licking along his chest—

Or maybe that’s his blood, or the pieces of torn flesh peeking through the bullet holes in his dress shirt.

 The older man brings a foot down against his face, throwing him onto the floor. Lights dot the air between them. Everything moves a lot slower than he remembers. Fukayama stomps on him, hard enough that his skull cracks against the tile.

The coward is running away then, his fearful cries dragging out behind.

Shizuo stares up at the ceiling.

He can hear a voice calling his name.

_‘Shizu-chan—‘_

Celty and Shinra are probably getting ready for bed. Shinra is going on and on about a romantic holiday he might want to take, Celty is playfully assaulting him with sharp claws of black smoke.

_‘Shizu-chan—‘_

Tom-san and Vorona might be eating dinner at a late-night diner after the end of their shift. Tom-san is talking about a movie he might have seen the other day. Vorona is enjoying her cake. Their conversation might sound strained and difficult, but Vorona is comfortable with Tom-san and neither of them mind the other's company.

_‘Shizu-chan—‘_

Akane is probably tucked in, dreaming of spending time at the dojo tomorrow afternoon. Mairu and Kururi might be watching a Yuhei Hanejima film. Kasuka might be enjoying an evening with his girlfriend.

_‘Shizu-chan, I—‘_

He works out patterns along the molding in the ceiling. He feels his body heat slowly subsiding as his muscles relax and his pulse beats slower and slower.

_‘I love you.’_

And there’s a blackness that greets him, like an old friend.

From a place where he might just spend the rest of eternity.

* * *

 

  
The party stops suddenly—all sound obliterated immediately as gunshots boom through the air.

It might be funny, he thinks, if Shizu-chan weren’t alone with Fukayama upstairs.

If he weren’t completely positive that the brute didn’t bring a gun.

No one moves for the longest time. His legs won’t carry him. His chest feels so tight that he can barely draw in another breath.

Finally, Tomoko lunges forward. She’s racing toward the stairs, and only when he watches as her little figure struggles along, does he find that he can move again.

With longer legs, he meets her halfway up, not even sparing her a look as he passes her with ease. He’s climbing the stairs in twos. He’s running like a blond monster is on his heels and he’s dodging garbage cans and street lamps.

He never would have thought, in all of his days, that he would find himself running toward Shizuo so much faster than he’s ever run away.

Smeared, bloody foot prints skid out into the hall. He nearly trips over himself as his body stops him again. The wind is knocked from his lungs.

It’s everywhere.

His knees nearly give out as he tiptoes forward. One step, then two, and he’s eventually so close to the threshold that it takes a gargantuan effort not to see what might lie inside.

His pulse, an endless thrumming of hummingbird’s wings—beating fifty-four kilometers an hour against the inside of his chest. He’s thinking about birds. He’s thinking about the five liters of blood in the human body, and—

He’s finding Shizu-chan draining out all five of those on the floor of Fukayama’s bedroom, all alone.

Dropping to his knees, he’s startled. By himself, by what he’s feeling. He’s never been so rooted in place. He swore to himself in the biology room, so many years ago, that he would never show this jagged piece of his heart even again.

He wouldn’t be weak. He would never crack at the sight of someone else dying.

But here he is. He’s livid. He’s exhausted. He’s thinking of his bed back at the hotel room, dragging his fingers through the brute’s bloodstained hair. He’s searching for the heat of breath, and he finds it—so faint that it’s barely even there.

He scoots forward, ignoring the way that his legs slide in the blood. He can’t think about that. He can’t imagine Shinra’s voice telling him, _‘Most humans can’t survive losing more than forty percent of their blood volume.’_

When his palms rest against the brute’s cheeks, his eyes crack open. They’re glassy and unfocused. He’s so drained of color, shaking with the effort of each breath. A dark, ugly bruise is forming along the side of his face, suspiciously foot-shaped. The realization brings some fire back into his veins. He’s going to slice that bastard Fukayama open. A cut for every drop of blood. He’ll pluck the man’s teeth out, one by one.

“I-Izaya,” Shizu-chan chokes. More blood splatters from his lips, “G-go.”

He doesn’t understand what that means. He tries to hush the brute, but there’s a weakened hand coming to rest on top of his own.

“G-get him, please.”

He won’t go. Tomoko will be in soon and she’ll call for help. He remembers his phone in his pocket, but before he can even reach for it, Shizuo is struggling to speak again.

“P-please,” his voice is raspy, blood bubbling in his throat. He’s freezing, chills wracking through him with each intake of oxygen, “I… I can’t fuck this up. _Please_.”

And he understands. He hates it, but he understands.

_‘You’ll do fine.’_

With one last, long look at the monster, he rises to his feet. He might have kissed him, but he tells himself—

_‘I’ll do it when I get back, when he feels better.’_

It’s a lie. Shizu-chan has lost forty percent, surely. He’s crumbled on the floor like garbage. He’s a rag-doll in so much red, forgotten here after today—an urban legend being born back home.

And Izaya leaves him there.

He definitely feels nothing as he steps out into the hall.  


* * *

 

  
Tachibana Tomoko has lived an honest life.

Thirty-five years old, struggling with the business that she’s build up from the ground. She’s never taken a bribe, never stolen a single thing. She’s given jobs to inexperienced girls straight out of college, to rehabilitating addicts just looking for a second chance in her kitchen. She’s always tried her hardest to look out for the underdog—for that of part people that she sees in herself.

If someone is in need, she will always be there for them.

It’s with that moral in mind that she finds herself at the top of the stairs, breathless as she watches Maki-kun disappear into a room at the very end of the long hall.

There’s something stained along the tile, but she can’t quite make it out.

When she finally reaches the room, Maki-kun is stumbling over the threshold. He looks at her, a haunting veil of shadows overhanging his eyes. She’s never seen him like this before—hollow, maybe, scared. Her stomach drops.

She only wants to see his smiling face. She wants to walk into the room and find Hayashi-kun laughing at her.

_“We got you!”_

She promises, to whichever God might be looking down on her, that she wouldn’t even be able to find the strength to be angry with them.

“Call an ambulance,” Maki-kun states, nothing behind his voice. His stare is hard, shoulders stiff.

He's passing by her again, making his way down the hall.

“He’s still breathing. Be with him.”

And he pads gradually down the stairs. She thinks of calling out to him, but she knows it’s no use. There is something in that room so sinister that it’s wiped the joy from Maki-kun’s smile.

The liquid on the floor is blood. Maki-kun was covered in it.

When she finally gathers the strength to move into the room, her eyes follow the streaks against the floor. Hayashi-kun lies at the end of the scarlet path. There’s blood everywhere: on the tile, on the toppled desk, in the open safe. He’s resting against it, propped up and seemingly staring right through her with half-lidded eyes.

She’s at his side before she can even comprehend it. Her fingers make clumsy work of pulling out her phone. She’s calling the emergency line. She sobbing to an operator. They tell her to stay on the phone, but it's quickly forgotten on the floor. She’s putting pressure on Hayashi-kun’s wounds, but there are too many to reach. He’s watching her, maybe. His irises are moving slowly as she jerks around. His lips are parted as though he means to speak.

And he does, quietly.

“T-Tomoko-san,” it’s a hiss of air, more so than a name, as he’s working a hand around her own, “M-my shirt, please.”

She doesn’t understand, but her fingers work the open edges of his shirt. She’s not embarrassed by the sight of his naked chest this time. She isn’t overcome by his beauty. She can barely see anything through her tears.

Inside, blood-stained and tucked against his ribs, there’s an envelope. It’s stuffed full, sealed with a golden sticker and heavy in her palms.

“M-Maki-kun, p-please, give him… it’s… don’t look inside.”

She’s nodding, she’s crying even harder. The operator is calling out for her through the speaker of her phone.

“It’s… a… a love l-letter. Please, M-Maki—“

“I know, I-I will, I will, Hayashi-kun,” she sobs, setting the envelope on the floor and wrapping her arms around him. He feels so thin. He’s not as warm as he was that night at the bar. He’s not so full of life.

There’s a gasp behind her, and she doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Chiyo.

“N-no,” the girl stumbles forward, slipping in the blood and sliding toward them. Hayashi-kun has closed his eyes, but his heart plays softly against her palm. The sound of sirens is barely audible in the distance.

 _‘Please,’_ her mind reels, _‘Please hurry. Please, please save him.’_

Chiyo is brushing the hair from his eyes. Her cheeks are wet, but she’s forcing a smile, gritting out a laugh.

“H-hey, Hayashi-kun, I saw you checking out Maki-kun in his cute suit earlier. You… you guys really need to calm down.”

His lips tug upward at that, eyes lifting to carry his gaze toward the ceiling. She thinks of the way he looked out into the sky over the weekend, how he’d flicked the ashes from his cigarette. She thinks of how he and Maki-kun laughed so many days ago at a joke that she still doesn’t understand.

“F-fucking nosy… ass,” He heaves, only choking up more blood as his eyelids droop closed, “Mind your own business.”

Chiyo is laughing in a way that sounds suspiciously like sobbing. Her hand finds the younger girl’s, squeezing, united in silent prayer. She listens as sirens blare outside of the window from the yard.

And when she reaches forward to wipe the sweat from Hayashi-kun’s brow, he isn’t moving anymore.

* * *

 

Fukayama Hiroto has not lived an honest life.

He’s lied, he’s cheated and stolen. He’s clawed his way up a slowly-growing pile of bodies. He’s stepped on so many weaker men to find himself on top.

And now, he’s shot someone.

He’s tearing through the night, blind in the darkness as his arm flaps uselessly at his side. That man—Hayashi Yukio—he was so much stronger than expected. He’d shattered every bone from the elbow down with one swat of his hand. He’d stood his ground until Fukayama had emptied every bullet he’d loaded in the clip into his skin.

Just as he’s sure that he took the right turn to escape into the night, he hits a brick all. Dead end. He hates the elaborate design of his estate for the first time since he’d commissioned it. Beautiful, yes, but so inefficient in a situation like this.

He’s turning to make his way back, and his heart lurches painfully in his chest as he spots the shadow of a person standing in his path. Moving away, his back plants firmly against the wall. For a single heartbeat, neither of them make to bridge the gap between them.

And then, the figure steps forward.

It’s a familiar face that he can’t fit with a name. The skinny secretary from _Tomoko’s_. The flamboyant, obnoxious one, always tailing behind that horrifying monster, Hayashi. He relaxes at the sight of him. A small fry, surely angered by the death of his boy-crush. Looking for revenge, feeling tough.

He’s a wispy thing, and even without the use of his arm, Fukayama is sure that he can take him.

“You made great work of the monster,” the man greets, mirth in his tone that causes a dull dread to swell in Fukayama’s chest, “But did you really think that he was the worst thing Koizumi-san had up his sleeve?”

There’s a beat of silence. Sirens are blaring in the distance.

“Have you ever considered his Plan B?”

The man is drawing nearer. There’s an ugly line of a smile stretching across his lips—a jack-o-lantern grin, open and fake. He’s barely hiding his madness behind those pearly teeth.

Fukayama tears a knife from his pocket, flicking open the blade and thanking his past self for knowing better than to carry just one weapon.

He’s stumbling over a threat when the man howls with laughter. He’s making the same mistake as his friend, reaching forward for Fukayama’s weapon. But this man is faster. His grip is tight around Fukayama’s wrist before he can even comprehend what’s happening.

“The monster that you killed, you see,” the man sighs, but it sounds more like a snarl, “ _it was mine_.”

And he leads Fukayama’s knife toward him, drawing the blade over the exposed skin of his chest. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t pause even when the older man cries out. Blood dribbles over the slit of the wound. His eyes are black, splintered stones in the glow of the security lights.

The sirens are fearfully close. He can hear police officers and EMTs rushing through the yard toward his home.

The man, a mad fire in his smile, smug as though he’s claimed every piece on their proverbial chess board, falls back. He drops Fukayama’s wrist. The knife falls downward, cushioned on the grass.

And the man—a demon maybe, much more terrifying than anything he has ever seen—lets a yowl tear through his throat.

“Help!” He screeches, feigning fear with shocking ease, “The shooter! H-he’s attacking me!”

There are footsteps drawing nearer in no time. Men with guns are yelling, ordering him to get down.

And this man—Hiroki Maki, he finally remembers—leans forward only slightly before moving away.

 _“I hear that Koizumi-san has some very talented men waiting for you in prison,”_ he whispers.

And his smile, the lilt of his soft breathing, Fukayama knows that he’ll never forget it.

Not as long as he lives.  


* * *

  
As Izaya makes his way back toward the house, he spots a group of murmuring party-goers tied together, pointing and gasping as the paramedics push a stretcher through the front doors. So many men are gathered around that he can only see small glimpses of blond poking through the crowd, but he notes, heart leaping, that they’re still trying to keep the brute alive.

He jumps at the sensation of a hand resting against his elbow. When he turns, a bloody Tomoko is sobered, staring up at him with puffy, pink-rimmed eyes.

She says nothing, but wraps her arms slowly around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Her breasts press more blood into the fabric of his shirt. Her warmth pulls him further back down to earth, to the reality that Shizu-chan will probably not make it to the hospital before he strangles out his final breath.

“M-Maki-kun,” she shivers, stepping back. She pulls something crinkly and red-stained from her bag, thrusting it toward him, “U-um, Hay—Hayashi-kun… he wanted me to give you this.”

She’s being ushered away by the police, asking for a statement. He works his finger under the seal, popping up the flap and peering inside.

And he laughs. He laughs long and hard, so hysterical that passersby, just trying to get home for the night, rush along for fear of another shooting.

Inside—

It’s the money.

He doesn’t know how Shizu-chan managed to drag himself over to get it, how he even remembered to grab it while bleeding to death on Fukayama’s floor.

But they’ve succeeded. Shizu-chan, despite everything, has finished the job.

And now he can head home.

Shizuo is a liar. He said that things would be different when they returned to Ikebukuro. He feels as though he might vomit, and he reminds himself that he’s still hung over. That’s definitely it. It’s not the sickness that comes with the brute’s betrayal. It’s not because he’ll be making the trip home alone.

Shizu-chan said that they would be together, but now he’s dying, maybe already dead. He’s left, he lied.

And Izaya regrets it—one final time.

He should have never trusted a monster with his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was... very hard to write. I realized only while writing Tomoko's scene that I've become really attached to these characters, and making them suffer also, by extension, makes me suffer.
> 
> This is the big scene that I've had planned out since the beginning! Only one chapter left now, so... we'll see where it goes. 
> 
> See you guys on Tuesday!


	14. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings are nothing but new beginnings.

Tomoko shoves a cup of coffee into his hands.

He’s barely awake, still shaking off the last aches of yesterday’s hangover and picking crusted blood from every inch of skin that he can spot it on. The laceration on his chest has long-since been stitched up. The girls had screeched upon discovering that not all of the mess on his clothes belonged to _“Hayashi-kun”,_ and he hadn’t even remembered slicing himself with Fukayama’s knife until they’d mentioned it.

Adrenaline slowly faded to pain, and so he’d accepted the attention of a few nurses.

He takes the coffee sluggishly, barely squeezing out a _‘thank you’_ as Tomoko takes a seat next to him. His stiches itch, but he ignores them. There’s no use in freaking everyone out again. None of them have slept since they situated themselves in the waiting room.

Tomoko hasn’t made a move to clean herself off. There’s a smear of blood cracking on her cheek, and he resists the urge to lick his finger and wipe it off. He can’t believe that the brute had so much in him. He’s never seen someone bleed so much. He’s never heard of anyone surviving a wound so horrible.

But it’s been twelve hours and Shizu-chan is still alive.

He can imagine the monster strapped up to so many machines, lungs expanding only because of the air being forced into inside of them. He doesn’t like this thought. Shizuo should never be so vulnerable. He’s strong. He rants and he raves. He tears mailboxes from the ground and twirls them above his head as though they were made of cardboard.

“I—I don’t understand any of this,” Tomoko sighs, dark circles shadowing beneath her glassy eyes, “Why would Fukayama-san shoot Hayashi-kun? Why was Hayashi-kun in his room? None of it makes any sense.”

Izaya struggles out a laugh. It’s hollow even in his own ears.

“When Shizu-chan told you that the two of us have been dating all along,” he breathes, pausing only to take a sip of his room-temperature drink, “That wasn’t the biggest secret we’ve been keeping.”

She flinches at that, but he can tell that she’s known all along, to some degree. She might not comprehend the details, but he knows that she’s been suspicious of the two of them. It would be impossible for her not to be, as perceptive as she’s proven that she is about these sorts of things.

“Hayashi-kun and I aren’t from around here. Those aren’t even our real names.”

She nods numbly. There’s an inkling of something in his chest, and he chooses to ignore it. These are the moments that he lives for—exposing his own lies. He should be rejoicing. He should be overwhelmed with smug satisfaction. But now, sitting in a small, heavily-lit waiting room as Bunko-chan cries softly in the corner and a blank Chiyo wraps shaking arms around her, he feels nothing short of miserable.

“Heiwajima Shizuo is a bodyguard in Ikebukuro. Orihara Izaya is an informant. The both of us were commissioned for this job—to hunt down Fukayama Hiroto and make him pay. Each of you just got caught in the cross-fire.”

He’s moving through these confessions mechanically. Tomoko doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t ask which name belongs to whom. She doesn’t lash out and accuse them of using her. She sits tight. Her hand finds its way to his, gripping it as though she means to comfort him.

Why?

“Shizu-chan and I are famous for hating each other back home, so whatever _this is_ … it’s not normal for us.”

And she laughs at that. He hates the way that she does it, but he doesn’t stop her.

“Why would an informant and a bodyguard come all the way here just for Fukayama-san?” she questions suddenly, eyes burning holes into his empty smile, “Your boss couldn’t find someone closer?”

It’s his turn to laugh. It might be a good thing that Shizu-chan is so far from waking up. He has so much to explain, and he’s not sure how long that might take.

“Did you never stop and ask yourself how Hayashi-kun could lift so many things with ease? He didn’t need any help carrying those filing cabinets, and he was able to move the stoves with no help. Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

She flushes lightly at his words. Did she… really not notice? How? Were the blond’s good looks really so overwhelming that she’d overlooked his monstrous strength?

“He’s known as The _Monster of Ikebukruo_ back home, but sometimes as our Strongest Man. Shizu-chan has a reputation for being violent and dangerous. Really, if you’re ever interested in taking a vacation, please consider coming to Tokyo and watching him lift a car over his head.”

She’s making a face as though she thinks he’s joking, but she sobers quickly when she realizes that he isn’t.

“And what about Orihara Izaya?” she asks, “What sort of reputation brought him here?”

His name rolls oddly from her lips. She emphasizes the wrong parts, and it’s an odd, nostalgic feeling. The shock of introductions, the doubt that he’s using his real name. It’s out of place here and not back home. It’s difficult not to correct her, to quell the terror of being found out.

“Orihara Izaya is an informant from Shinjuku, also a dangerous man. He works mainly for the Yakuza.”

She bristles at the confession. Someone like Tomoko is probably unfamiliar with these things. To her, this dark world must be completely foreign, like something out of a horror novel—the things that she reads about in the paper in the morning, thinking only, _‘I’m so happy that I’ll never get wrapped up in that.’_

They’re silent for a long moment. Tomoko is playing with the hem of her skirt, dragging her eyes along the lines of the tile. Izaya takes another sip of coffee.

“So you’ll be leaving then… when Hay—Heiwajima-san gets better.”

He almost tells her to call the brute Shizuo, because he knows that’s what the moron would want. He stops himself only because speaking for the monster feels entirely too romantic. As though he knows what the idiot actually wants. As though he could ever make him happy enough to understand how to do it without even trying.

“Yes, we’ll be leaving. I apologize for not giving better notice.”

A giggle escapes her, and it’s the last thing he would have expected. It’s not loud enough to alert the girls. None of them seem to have noticed their conversation at all.

“Are you scared?” she asks, and he stops himself from telling her that he’s never been afraid of anything, “Of what people back home will think of the two of you? Since you didn’t get along before.”

He’s been working very hard to not think about that. Orihara Izaya is a master of running away—from unruly clients, from angry teenage girls, from Heiwajima Shizuo, and definitely from himself.

“Shizu-chan says that everything will be okay,” he sighs, trying his hardest to avoid the question without raising suspicion, “But the idiot got himself shot and nearly killed, so maybe he was wrong.”

She twitches, obviously upset with him. She doesn’t understand this version of Maki-kun—the version who is a sneaky liar who has been fooling her this entire time. She’s thinking, probably, _‘Where did that laid back smile go? How can he say such horrible things about someone who he’s supposed to love?’_

Before she can speak, the waiting room doors are pushed open. Everyone turns collectively, hoping to see a nurse, and only Izaya is not confused by the face that they find there instead.

Only by what he’s carrying.

Koizumi saunters into the room, free of bodyguards for the first time since they’d met three weeks ago. He’s not smiling, somber even, as he makes his way toward the informant and a stunned Tomoko. In his arms rests a bouquet of many different flowers.

“Orihara-san,” he greets, so formal, so oddly absent of any ruthlessness, “How is he doing?”

It takes a moment for Izaya to register his words.

“Well… he’s still in the ER,” he replies eventually, narrowing his eyes, “He was shot three times. How do you think?”

Koizumi doesn’t retort, just shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. Tomoko is looking between the both of them, finally connecting the dots and surely remembering the old pervert from one of his first shifts at the catering company.

She stands then, barely reaching Koizumi’s massive shoulder at full height. She’s on the tips of her toes, face red with rage.

And she slaps him.

“You’re their boss, aren’t you?!” she hollers, trembling with an anger so foul that would put Shizu-chan to shame, “You’re the one who put Heiwajima-san in danger! Why wouldn’t you take better care of him?! He’s a person! He deserves to be safe!”

Koizumi’s face stays planted firmly to the side, moved only by the initial connection of palm against skin. His cheek reddens where her hand touched him, and Izaya can’t hold back a wince at the sound of it. Chiyo, despite her sadness and worry, still manages to coo at the drama. He swears he can hear her quietly cheering Tomoko on.

“I-I, well,” the old pervert stammers, gripping tightly to the bouquet, “I didn’t think… from what I’d heard… I didn’t think he was actually… human…”

Everyone stands in silence. Chiyo is doing a poor job of suppressing her laughter.

Koizumi continues, “From what Shiki-san told me about him, I was really under the impression that bullets wouldn’t… work on him.”

Izaya blinks—once, twice, three and four times. He sets his coffee cup on the wide arm of his chair, leaning back and drawing his eyes along the room.

“Koizumi-san,” he sighs, shocking even himself with his words, “He’s… human. Just… a really strong human.”

Koizumi clears his throat. Did no one actually do their research? How big of a joke is the Aomori Yakuza?

Tomoko moves back, scowling at the older man and taking a seat. She crosses one leg over the other, bottom lip stuck out in a pout that might actually have the fervor to set the pervert on fire.

No one speaks for a long time after that. Koizumi sets the flowers on the magazine-littered table in the middle of the room and takes a seat next to Kyou. Izaya can’t believe it, he really can’t, but the girl is sizing the pervert up from the moment he sits down.

“Hey,” she whispers, wiping the stains of mascara from under her eyes, “I’m Kyou-chan. I love your suit.”

Rolling his eyes, Izaya turns his attention away from the pair. If they eventually sneak off together, he might end up vomiting on another floor.

“Was Heiwajima-san happy?” Tomoko asks suddenly, her stare shadowed by a sadness that tugs annoyingly at his heart, “Back home, were people nice to him?”

Izaya holds back the retort that instantly rises in his throat.

_‘Of course not.’_

But that’s too cruel, even for him. He’s not too proud to admit that the brute has lived a hard life. He’d helped fan that misery for many years. Despite it, the monster had reached out and touched the hearts of many unassuming humans, eating away at the pity in their hearts and building a small following of lost souls.

“Shizu-chan runs into a lot of trouble because of his temper and strength,” he explains instead, wondering why this is the thing that she’s chosen to ask about, “But he’s found a safety-net. There are people who are waiting for him back home.”

She nods, seemingly lost in thought.

“And you?” she asks. He expected this, but he still doesn’t want to answer, “Are there people waiting for you too?”

He thinks of Namie, but to her, he’s more of a paycheck and a shelter from the police. He thinks of the Awakusu group, but there are so many other informants roving the city. They’ve been fine all this time without him.

“No,” he admits, and he’s not sure why he doesn’t lie, “There’s no one.”

She gives him a look that he utterly despises.

It’s sympathy, maybe, and it stings deep in his chest.  


* * *

  
Everything feels a little fuzzy.

In the furthest recesses of his mind, he can hear a long, slow beeping.

One beat, two, three, and four.

It’s a muffled sound, as though his head is under water. Cold fingers work their way through his chest, pressing at his knee, dipping in his belly. There are voices, the gradual highs and lows of a conversation, words that he doesn’t understand. There’s light seeping in through his cracked eyelids, searing against his retina. The voices slip away. The beeping is all that he can hear.

And he sleeps.

He fades in and out many times. Someone is pressing against his arm. There’s a pressure on top of his chest. His mouth opens to accommodate something that scratches its way along his throat, and then there’s nothing.

A long blackness, winding out before him. The warm coils of slumber, the promise of never waking up again. He can barely push out a breath, drag the oxygen into his lungs. Pain pulses along his scalp, tremors jittering against his skin, growing stronger and stronger until his entire body feels as though it’s vibrating.

The blackness parts gradually to accommodate a lone figure. Growing clearer, he can barely make out Izaya’s blurry face smiling at him in the dark.

_‘You’ve really gotten yourself into quite the situation, haven’t you, Shizu-chan?’_

He goes to tell the louse to shut up, but his words are garbled and unintelligible. He tries to reach forward, to punch the grin from the bastard’s face, but he can’t move a single muscle. The weight against his chest shifts. He can breathe easier. Izaya cackles.

_‘Did you really think that bullets could kill you?’_

No, he didn’t. He knew he wouldn’t die. He knew he would pull through. That torturously knowing voice, that sly twinkle in the informant’s eye. Those things he’d remembered, and those things had pulled him from the icy grasp of death before he could even think about giving in.

_‘You told me that we would be together. Did you mean it?’_

Yes, I did. I meant it. I did.

I love you.

These words refuse to leave him, but Izaya smiles as though he knows. He knows everything. He’s always a step ahead, and then miles away. Shizuo has spent his entire life chasing, pursuing, desperately reaching anger-dumbed fingers toward the bastard, always too slow to catch him.

_‘You’ve caught me now. You’ve caught me.’_

I won’t let you go. You’re mine, and I’m not giving that up.

I won’t die now that I’ve caught you.

The bleary curtain of sleep lightens, then pulls away. The beeping grows louder. His lungs quiver with each breath, but he’s alive. He’s numb and he can’t seem to move even his fingers, but he’s here and he survived, and Izaya is out there somewhere, waiting for him.

The living world is a blur of lights and smells, of murmuring voices through closed doors and the tittering of birds outside of the hospital window. His eyes can’t concentrate. Everything is fuzzy around the edges. The door opens and the dull footfalls of a nurse echo in his ears.

“Heiwajima-san, how are you feeling?” a man’s voice calls. He trains bleary eyes to the ceiling. There’s an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He can’t nod, can’t do much more than blink and breathe.

“Now that you’re awake,” the man continues, “It’s time for your semen sample.”

He jerks upright, muscles alive in mere seconds. Achingly, his head cranes to meet the eyes of the man—

 _Izaya_ , the stupid bastard, grinning down at him in a pair of oversized scrubs and a nametag that definitely isn’t his own.

He croaks uselessly, heartrate rising on the machine next to him. Izaya hushes him, telling him to calm down or someone will rush in and catch them together.

“After all the work that I put into coming to see you,” the louse whispers, cocky and insufferable as ever before, “Do you want to get me kicked out of here?”

He goes to count down in his head, but Izaya takes a seat on the bed, brushing the hair out of his face. The feeling of cool fingers against his skin calms him, and he finds himself staring up into those mirthful eyes as his anger melts into something else entirely.

Relief, he thinks. And maybe a hint of arousal. The scrubs are oversized, and he hates to think that maybe a childhood spent in and out of hospitals has embedded something forbidden and depraved deep inside of his brain, but…

The louse looks irresistible.

“Everyone is worried,” Izaya soothes, dragging his hand along Shizuo’s cheek, “Even Koizumi-san is waiting for you out there. Tomoko, the girls, the cooks… you’ve filled the entire waiting room.”

He feels guilty at first, but a warmth spreads itself through his chest. He’s okay. He didn’t fail.

No one will be sad because of him.

Not this time.

Izaya plays with his hair, taking time with each strand as an unnamed emotion settles in the shadows of his eyes. A fondness, maybe. He wonders how hard he’d hit his head, if he can actually mistake any sort of emotion playing across the louse’s face for anything but sneakiness or hatred.

He thinks about the Izaya in his hallucinations—smiling, laughing, and loving him, even. He thinks of the Izaya here, right now, maybe the same, maybe only sitting with him because something deep inside of both of them refuses to let them be apart.

He wants to tell the louse, _“It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”_

But words won’t move through his throat, even if the oxygen mask weren’t covering his mouth anyway.

Instead, he lifts a sluggish hand, allowing it to fall slowly against Izaya’s cheek. They lock eyes, neither saying a word. They don’t have to, he thinks, because his stare is as strong as he can muster.

There’s a lot of feeling behind his eyes, emanating from him like the fire of his inhuman body-heat. The bandages against the side of his face pull as his frown deepens. His head aches as he furrows his brows.

 _‘I love you,’_ he thinks, _‘everything will be okay.’_

Izaya makes a strangled noise and turns away, and he knows the flea heard has him loud and clear.  
  


* * *

  
Izaya slips back into the waiting room before anyone notices how long he was actually gone. He’s changed back into his bloodied clothing, sneaking the scrubs and nametag back into the staff waiting room when the last of the nurses had left to resume their shifts. When he takes a seat, he notices immediately that Koizumi and Kyou are gone.

_Gross._

So, so gross.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” Chiyo greets, thumbing through a magazine as Bunko slumbers against her shoulder, “Get any good news?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“He just woke up,” he hums, and he squashes the unwanted elation that he feels at the sight of her swiftly-returning smile, “He should be able to take visitors in a bit.”

It’s been fifteen hours now. No one makes a move to go home. A few of the cooks have went outside to smoke. Koizumi and Kyou have surely disappeared to an unmanned bathroom to do something heinous that he refuses to think about. Tomoko is texting someone, surely her boyfriend. Chiyo’s fiancé is supposed to bring lunch later.

“I can’t believe you squared off with Fukayama-san,” the short haired girl adds a moment later, stretching her arms above her head and cracking her back, “I mean, I understand that you’re apparently some scary informant back home, but that was badass! Why aren’t we talking about this?”

Izaya laughs, and he finds that maybe it isn’t as forced as he would like to think.

“He dropped the gun in his room,” he replies, truly not understanding how chasing such a coward could be anything but second-nature after what he’d done, “His knife was dull anyway. I only needed three stiches.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. She goes on about fighting for the one you love, about Izaya as the blazing hero in an action movie, bursting out into the courtyard and taking down the bad guy with his wits as his only weapon. Tomoko giggles at that, and he finds that it’s contagious.

“Chiyo, really,” he chuckles, “If anyone in Ikebukuro heard you referring to me as a hero, they’d immediately take you to get your head checked.”

She seems to enjoy that line, and he’s absolutely not proud of himself for saying something so funny to her. He’s not really going to miss these people at all.

These people who like him, even after being manipulated.

The doors open suddenly, and instead of the cooks or Kyou, or anyone else that they might be expecting, it’s a nurse.

“Orihara-san?” She questions, looking around the room.

He raises his hand, sparing the most charming grin he can muster while so exhausted in bloody clothes, with a headache still pulsing through his skull.

“Heiwajima-san is awake,” She speaks, returning his smile, “He’s asking for you.”

There’s not a heat that settles against his cheeks at the words, and he’s definitely not surprised.

He rises, making a show of bowing widely at the girls before following the nurse out into the hall.  


* * *

  
The nurse moves to the side to allow Izaya into the room.

He’s dressed in filthy clothes this time, probably having put those stupid scrubs back where he found them before returning to wait with Tomoko-san and the rest of the staff. He’s smiling his smug little smile, but there’s something entirely different floating around in his eyes.

The oxygen mask was removed half an hour ago, but he’d only just found himself able to talk.

And, of course, the first thing he’d done was ask for the stupid bastard louse.

“What’s that on your chest?” he questions, eyeing the sutures warily, “Did you finally trip and fall while flipping around on shit?”

Izaya touches a gentle hand to the wound, his expression warped for a fraction of a second before his mask moves reliably into place.

“I was making a point,” he replies casually, waving goodbye to the nurse as she closes the door behind him, “Fukayama’s fingerprints are all over the knife that cut me.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that at all, but he doesn’t press it. It’s better for his health if he doesn’t.

Izaya sits next to him on the bed again, drawing nimble fingers along his arm and stopping at the tape covering his IV. He imagines for a moment that the louse is going to tear it out, but they both know that he won’t feel it. Even without the drugs that blur the corners of his vision and slur the ends of his speech, his tolerance is through the roof.

He can’t remember if he even felt more than a twinge at any of the bullets entering his skin.

For that, for once, he is thankful. He’s not sure if he could face Tomoko-san and the others if he’d been crying like a baby when they’d discovered him.

“Did Koizumi-san get the money?” he asks.

Izaya nods.

“He brought you flowers,” the flea jokes, but he’s positive by the scowl on the other man’s face that it’s not actually much of a joke, “He wants to thank you and apologize simultaneously.”

He makes a low noise, as though to affirm that he’s heard the words, but he isn’t too happy about them either. He’d really hoped that he wouldn’t be sitting in a hospital bed when finally meeting up with the pervert for the last time.

The old bastard will surely stand just far enough away that it will be impossible to strangle him.

After a while, a few more people are let into the room. Izaya stays by his side, hand still rested against his arm. He enjoys the weight of it, the warmth, even though he wants to reassure the louse that he really doesn’t need to be comforted through this.

Tomoko-san, Chiyo, and Bunko-san shuffle in.

Tomoko-san rushes toward him, nearly toppling the flea over as her arms fling around the blond’s neck. He stiffens, heartrate beeping dangerously as she apologizes and pulls away. Everyone is covered in so much blood. He’s not sure how much a normal person has, but the amount of red stains against each of their outfits is mildly alarming.

“Haya—Heiwajima-san,” she stutters, teary-eyed and trembling, “We were all so worried about you! I-I’m so relieved. I can’t believe this—I’m so happy that you’re okay!”

There’s laughter after that, jokes made and stories being told. Izaya is unraveling a tale about one of their many fights, putting far too much emphasis on Shizuo’s strength if only to elicit astounded reactions from Tomoko-san and the girls.

And it’s nice. It feels comfortable. A loneliness tugs at his chest, reminding him that they’ll be headed home as soon as he’s discharged, but he tries not to focus on that.

Then, as though sensing that the moods were too high, Koizumi-san steps through the threshold of the room.

The oxygen depletes from the room. Tomoko-san is glaring at the old man for some reason. Chiyo takes a step back to clear a path between them. True to Izaya’s word, the pervert is carrying a bouquet. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Heiwajima-san,” he greets, padding further into the room and setting the flowers on the nightstand, “Feeling better?”

Shizuo spares him a nod. He’s not sure what to do.

“I apologize for this misunderstanding,” he continues, twitching only slightly, “You see, I was under the impression—“

“I don’t care,” Shizuo interjects. He can feel stress bulging at his forehead, itching in his veins, “Listen, if you ever text Izaya again, I’m going to fucking kill you, got it?”

Koizumi looks startled, as though that might have been the last thing he would have expected to come out of Shizuo’s mouth in this situation. Before he can reply, the blond continues.

“I look pathetic in this bed, but I’ll be better tomorrow. And if I find out that you’re still saying gross shit to him, I’m going to strangle you with your own spine.”

Koizumi sits still for the longest time, seeming to mull over the threat and how capable Shizuo might actually be of seeing it through.

Then, he bows, long and low, before apologizing a final time and making his way out of the room.

No one speaks until Chiyo howls so loudly that he’s sure the entire floor can hear it.

“Shizuo-kun is such a badass! Can you believe it, Tomoko-chan? That was so cool!”  


* * *

 

  
True to his word, Shizu-chan is released the following afternoon.

The medical staff is flabbergasted, but no one in their group appears to be surprised.

It’s funny, watching the brute as he’s wheeled out to Tomoko’s truck. He seems helpless, almost, as though he couldn’t easily lift the chair above his head and maybe even the truck too.

They help him into the truck, even if he doesn’t need it. Everyone is still bloody, filthy and exhausted. Their flight will arrive in only a few hours, and Izaya mourns the loss of much-needed sleep in favor of packing their things.

“Do you guys need help?” Tomoko asks, but Shizuo reassures her that they’ll be okay.

They’re dropped off at the hotel. It feels so much smaller than the first day, and there’s an unfamiliar twinging in his chest as they ascend the elevator for the very last time.

The maids greet them, relieved of course to see the blond making his way down the hall. When they enter the suite, Shizu-chan’s butler is zipping up the last of the brute’s luggage.

“Heiwajima-san,” the man calls, whipping around so quickly that Izaya thinks he might topple over, “I’m so happy that you’re feeling better! I was so worried, but Koizumi-san barred me from the hospital—“

“Did you pack our things?”

Izaya’s voice seems to pull both men from the joyful haze of their silly little reunion. Ota looks around at the bags nervously, seemingly ready for the barrage of insults. Instead, the informant forces a smile.

“Thank you, butler-san. How thoughtful of you.”

They’re leaving. Shizu-chan won’t be able to fawn over the man ever again, so…

He might as well pretend to be nice.

Shizuo narrows his eyes, searching for deceptive motives. Ota fumbles a reply.

“I’m taking a shower,” Izaya adds, trekking toward the bathroom (for the last time, he reminds himself), “I reek of monster blood.”

The brute scoffs, but doesn’t throw anything at him, doesn’t fuss or fight. Just lets him go.

And Izaya might not be jealous, might not even be angry anymore.

Instead, he wonders if the beast will sneak away from his butler long enough to join him for a final bath.

He might even be nice enough to wash the monster’s hair this time.

Closing the door behind him, he sheds his bloody clothes. His reflection looks half-dead, as though he’s dragged himself from the grave for one last shower.

He ghosts his fingers along the mark on his chest, thinking about the banquet, about Shizu-chan bleeding out, reaching for him. He’s not sure what to make of it, what he’s feeling.

There’s relief, and he reasons that it might only be because of the end of this job. There’s exhaustion, there’s bitterness, and—

Maybe even fear.

He doesn’t want to address it, but his mind reels regardless. He’d been afraid of losing Shizuo, of letting him go so soon after getting to know him. He’d been terrified of traveling back home alone. At the time, in so much shock, he hadn’t had the strength to ponder it, but now…

Now, he realizes that the dread still hasn’t left him.

Shizu-chan will look as though he’s taken a ride in a blender when they return home. Everyone will fret over him. They’ll take care of him and embarrass him with their boundless love and affection.

And where will Izaya be? Will they allow him anywhere near the brute?

It’s such a stupid thought. He doesn’t care about being left out. All that matters is returning to the piles of work that he’d left behind. He has so many phone calls to make upon returning home that he’s sure he won’t be able to sleep for a week.

So it doesn’t matter if he’ll be shut out or not. He’s not interested in dressing wounds and making soup for the idiot like some sort of housewife. If the distance spreads out between them and they find themselves becoming strangers, so be it. It doesn’t matter.

He turns on the water, stepping under the heat of it and watching as old blood runs in brown trails down his legs into the drain. He works his fingers through his hair, stopping to add shampoo, trying to focus on work-related things as he cleans himself.

When he’s finally found himself going over the information he’d promised to gather for his last client, the bathroom door opens. Shizu-chan gracelessly makes his way into the room.

He lied, of course, just like the brute has been lying this entire time.

He doesn’t even consider offering to wash the monster’s hair.  


* * *

  
The airport is packed with people when they arrive, but not so many travelers as their group of new friends, saying goodbye.

Ota-san had talked to him fondly on the ride over, telling both of them about his son joining a sports team, his daughter making a new friend in class. It was nice, listening to his words, and Shizuo feels that maybe he’ll miss the older man more than anyone.

Tomoko-san is tearful already. She takes a skittish louse in her arms, planting kisses on each of his cheeks as the other girls make fun of how uncomfortable he looks.

“You be good, okay?” she sobs, backing away and thrusting a finger in Izaya’s face, “I’m going to call Heiwajima-san every week, and if he tells me that you’re still up to no good, I’m coming to Ikebukuro!”

The louse is speechless for the first time Shizuo has ever witnessed.

Chiyo steps forward, extending her arms and smiling despite glassy eyes.

“Shizuo-kun,” she sighs, “It’s going to be lonely around the office without your pretty face.”

He allows himself to be hugged, regardless of the embarrassment that bubbles in his chest and colors his cheeks. They both receive an embrace from each of the girls. The cooks bow to him in the most respectful way he’s ever experienced.

“Good luck,” one man says, patting him on the shoulder, “You know we’re always here if you need a job.”

He chances a smile, thanking each of them bashfully. Ota-san is the last person to approach him. They look at each other for a few heartbeats, silence heavy between them as the minutes tick by. They have to be leaving soon, but he doesn’t want to go. It’s been such a long time—twenty-one days of working, of growing, of falling in love and building connections with so many new people.

“H-Heiwajima-san,” Ota-san starts, glassy eyes sparkling beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, “I guess this is goodbye.”

Shizuo agrees. Yes, yes it is.

The older man pulls him into a hug, awkward only because of their height difference. It’s so warm and gentle, so loving and desperate, so much more than he ever thought he deserved from another person. His heart feels as though it might explode. His throat is too tight to speak. He looks at nothing but the balding head beneath him, feeling suddenly as though he should try to call his parents and reconcile.

“Thank you, Heiwajima-san,” The older man trembles, backing away, “I’ve enjoyed every moment of working for you. Please… take care.”

Shizuo clears his throat. He chances a glance around the airport.

Then, he grins.

“I want to hear about your son’s team again,” he draws out, “I want to know how many games they win. So call me when they play. Tell me about it.”

Ota-san is a sniveling mess by the end of it. He hugs the blond three more times before they finally have to leave.

With one last look at the tearful faces of their temporary coworkers, the group who they’ll be leaving behind forever, they make their way down the hall toward the plane.

Izaya coughs, and Shizuo knows that he’s a little sad about it too.  


* * *

  
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Izaya forces himself to calm down before answering.

“Just a minute!”

He can hear the stranger’s disgruntled cursing. He wonders, only for a moment, if this person is so desperate, why they don’t just use the women’s restroom instead.

He’s staring at himself in the mirror, hating the color on his cheek as his fingers dig desperately into the edge of the sink. The room is so small that he might be able to touch the ceiling if he tried. Both of his feet touch opposite walls as he struggles to hold himself upright.

There might be a little more room in here, he thinks, if Shizu-chan weren’t squeezed in behind him.

The brute has an arm wrapped around his waist, working his erection in the most torturous of ways. The hardness inside of him is moving slowly—in, then out. In, then out again—and he stifles a moan as another knock taps against the door.

“J-just a minute!”

Shizuo stiffens with each person who disturbs them, but he doesn’t stop. There’s the squelching of the lube between them—something that the brute hadn’t been as mortified to discover that his butler had packed in his carry-on bag as Izaya would have expected—but it’s nearly drowned out by their strangled breathing. The blond is nibbling at his neck, creating new marks where the old ones have long-since faded.

He rests his head against the sink, pressing his ass firmly against the brute and spreading his thighs as wide as the room will accommodate. Shizu-chan lets out a low groan, the sound of it rattling in his ears and sending a rush of blood straight to his groin.

“S-Shizu-chan,” he hisses, sweaty and cramped, too overwhelmed with pleasure to care, “Y-you’ll tear your s-stitches.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh, grinding against him and pumping more firmly at his cock.

“Who cares,” the beast replies, a gravelly string of syllables, a noise so erotic that he can barely concentrate on anything else, “F-feels good.”

The monster hits his sweet spot once, tearing a long moan from his throat. Shizuo is laughing breathily, and he sends the idiot a glare in the mirror as he bites down on his knuckle.

There’s another knock on that door. Before he can open his mouth again to speak, Shizuo is banging his fist against it.

“We’re busy,” he barks, so unabashed in his anger that Izaya wants to melt into the floor, “Use the other fucking bathroom!”

The knocking immediately stops. He’s not sure if he should be relieved or horrified. He wonders if the staff will wait for them to finish before reprimanding them.

However, Shizu-chan thrusts just a little too roughly inside of him, and the pain that wracks through his entire body is so delicious that he can barely contain another cry.

The brute digs eager teeth into his shoulder, thumbing the slit of his penis, so slick with excitement that the blond’s fingers almost have trouble gripping it. He’s breathing harder, leaning back into the other man’s grip and closing his eyes. And he’s cursing, writhing, cumming hard onto the edge of the sink and Shizu-chan’s fist.

Shizuo grips him tightly, lifting him from the floor and falling back to sit on the toilet. He’s too exhausted to argue, even as the monster is lifting him and dropping him down, bucking his hips deep inside of him and grumbling out the most delectable noises.

And then, sliding in completely, the brute finishes.

It’s a surprise, but when they stumble out of the bathroom, disheveled and messy-haired, no one speaks to them at all.

No one will even look at them.

“You were too damn loud,” Shizu-chan whispers, taking his seat by the window.

And for the billionth time, Izaya thinks, _‘I hate you. Please, please just die.’_  
  


* * *

  
He watches as the clouds billow around them—fat, fluffy things that look so soft that he wishes he could reach through the glass and touch them. Izaya has dozed off next to him, having accepted one of those silly little next pillows from an oddly flustered flight attendant, and he busies himself by watching the sun set somewhere far beneath the clouds.

The sky is marked in oranges and pinks. Gradually, he spots the dots of lights from the cities far below. Izaya mumbles something in his sleep, turning over in his seat.

The louse is peaceful now, quiet and reasonably tolerable. There are tiny bruises dotting his neck. His lips are still a little swollen, and his hair hasn’t quite stopped sticking out awkwardly no matter how many times he’d combed it down.

It’s cute, really, even if he would never admit it aloud. Watching him like this is far more entertaining that the scenery outside. He’s snoring just a little. A sleepy brush of color has worked its way along his face. Long lashes are stark against the paleness of his skin, and—

Shizuo knows then, that he really is in love.

His heart thrums, his stomach expands with so many wings of so many butterflies that he can barely think straight. He doesn’t know what will happen when they step into the airport and greet their friends, but he does know one thing:

He wants to face the fear of his unknown future with this stupid bastard by his side.

Time melts by. Night covers them in a thick blanket of darkness. The stars seem so much closer than he’s ever seen them before. The world outside of the window is like nothing he has experienced, and he wonders if he could ever witness something so beautiful for the rest of his days.

But then he turns—overtaken by surprise, by need and an aching sort of passion—and drinks in the serenity of Izaya’s unconscious smile.

Reaching forward, he runs his fingers through dark hair. It’s just silky as it looks. Each unruly piece pops back up as he moves further, and it takes everything he has not to pull back when he discover that the louse is leaning into his touch.

This is too much.

The plane is landing. The pilot announces it over the speakers.

Bleary-eyed passengers yawn and stretch. Izaya’s eyes crack open. There are dark circles shadowing underneath, and he wishes that the idiot would just sleep. He’s been awake for almost forty-eight hours straight.

Maybe they’ll go back to the louse’s house and take a nap when they get home. Maybe they’ll stop by Russia Sushi for some breakfast. It will be sunrise by the time they meet everyone at the airport. There’s a nervous tension building inside of him at the mere thought of seeing so many familiar faces after so many things have changed within him.

He thinks of Ota-san, of Tomoko-san and the girls, the cooks, that bastard Koizumi-san.

And he hopes that everyone is sleeping well. He hopes that everyone is okay.

(Well, maybe not Koizumi-san, he thinks. He hopes that the old pervert can never sleep through the night ever again.)

When they finally land, Izaya is completely awake. They don’t speak. He can feel the louse’s nerves without even looking at him. He’s not really sure what the little sneak is so worried about, but something is keeping him from cracking his usual jokes.

It’s annoying. He could really use the distraction right now.

Everyone rises to leave. They wait their turn, grab their bags, and make their way out with the crowd. Izaya doesn’t even seem to notice him, he’s so trapped in his own thoughts.

Light is hinting at the horizon when they step off of the plane. His bag hangs from his shoulder, a tiny weight that anchors him to the reality of finally coming home. His apartment is probably so dusty. Not that he’s ever dusted it before, really, but the mere thought of the new mess isn’t particularly exciting. He can barely fathom returning to work tomorrow. He wonders if Tom-san will give him another day off to settle back in.

He thinks about Celty waiting for him somewhere inside of the airport, of Shinra harassing her, surely, and Tom-san and Vorona making idle conversation as both stifle yawns. He’s not sure who else will be there, if anyone else is there at all. Maybe Izaya’s sisters or that assistant of his. Maybe a skeevy Yakuza member who will escort the slimy bastard home.

Izaya stiffens next to him as they make their way down the long hallway, nearing the door. On the other side, they will grab their luggage and meet up with their friends. One more stop, just to gather their things, and this job will be completely finished.

They push through. Izaya is lagging behind.

The conveyor heaves as they watch for their bags. Shizuo spots his immediately, noting the tag fondly. Izaya takes a little bit longer, and he notices that the louse’s bag has made three trips around before he pretends to notice it.

“Hey, louse,” He starts, but Izaya shoots him a peculiar look.

There’s a lot going on behind his eyes, hinting at the edges of the firm line of his lips. He’s thinking about something very hard. Shizuo knows that it’s probably stupid. He’s worrying, and if it’s about their friends seeing them together, he wants to tell the moron that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone already knows.

They’re walking toward the gates. A crowd gathers around them, strangers hurrying to meet their loved ones, business men rushing to find their next flights. In the confusion, he focuses only on Izaya carrying his bag, stiff-shouldered and vibrating with discontent.

He thinks of the last three weeks, of falling in love.

And he understands suddenly that the louse is afraid of everything going back to the way it was.

He can see their group of friends huddled together over the heads of other travelers. He stops, staring down at the informant and waiting until he stops walking too.

And he takes his hand, sending him a frown that tells him, _‘I’m not letting go.’_

They’re moving through the crowd. Celty runs to embrace him. Everyone is laughing, greeting them, and chattering excitedly all at once. He never lets go of Izaya’s hand.

They’re tired, they’re injured, but they agree to join their friends for breakfast at a café.

Izaya leans into him, their heat mingling as they make their way out into the bright sunlight of morning. They’re together, after everything. Izaya allows a smile to play along his lips.

Shizuo breathes in deeply.

They’re walking through the streets. Celty is typing hastily on her phone, turning the screen to convey messages that he barely has enough time to read. Shinra is going on about everything they’ve done over the last three weeks. Tom-san and Vorona are laughing at the doctor’s stupid jokes, and he finds, despite everything that’s happened, despite not knowing what the future holds for them—

He’s happy to finally be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! This has been a wild ride, and I want to take the time to thank everyone for sticking with me for so long! It's been such a tremendously fun experience, and I can't believe it's over already! Thank you for reading! Thank you for commenting! Thank you for leaving kudos! Thank you for just taking the time to make it to the end!
> 
> I know that this ending is fairly open-ended, but I've been considering the idea of writing a short (20-30k) sequel, if anyone would be interested in that in the future! Please let me know! There's a lot that I would have loved to explore, but I don't know how long I could have kept this story interesting! And I need a break. Maybe about a week to refuel before I can even consider jumping into a huge story like this again! But I'll be around! I already have quite a few projects planned out.
> 
> Anyway, thank all of you so much! I feel so ridiculously lucky to have been able to share this story with all of you. I hope you enjoyed it! See you around!


End file.
